La Patisserie de la Rose
by George deValier
Summary: AU. Accountant Matthew Williams is used to being unnoticed, ignored, and forgotten. That is until pastry chef Francis Bonnefoy appears like a burst of colour in his dull, grey life. Gift fic for TCTBS.
1. Venus et Eclair

_This story is a gift for the lovely, funny, talented, clever and just all-round awesome Pixie, a.k.a This Could Theoretically Be Sparta. ( /u/1999566/) (Go read her fics if you haven't already - she is a fantastic author, and you won't regret it!) It started as a birthday gift, but stretched out much longer than that, (sorry!) so I think of it now as a well-deserved gift simply for being such a funny, honest, and interesting friend. Pixie, you rock, and I hope you enjoy this little story I've written for you. ^_^_

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><p><strong>LA PATISSERIE DE LA ROSE<strong>  
><span>A Delicious Love Story in Six Portions<span>

.

_Pairing: Francis Bonnefoy/Matthew Williams (France/Canada)_

_Summary: Human AU. Accountant Matthew Williams is used to being unnoticed, ignored, and forgotten. That is until pastry chef Francis Bonnefoy appears like a burst of colour in his dull, grey life._

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><p><strong>CHAPTER ONE<strong>  
><strong>Venus et Éclair<strong>

.

It was a dull, grey morning as Matthew walked briskly down the dull, grey street. It was the ninth morning he had walked to work down this very street, every one the same, every one dull and grey. Matthew was used to being passed over and unnoticed, but in this new, huge city, he felt completely invisible. This place was too large and unfriendly: hundreds of people hurrying past with their eyes on the ground, practically identical in their grey suits with their grey expressions. Grey buildings lined both sides of the street; grey shops and businesses all blended together. And it seemed that every day the sky overhead was dark with the promise of rain. Matthew clenched his hand around his briefcase, clenched his teeth as the teeming crowd pushed past him unseeing. At least his little apartment was not far from his large office block, so this dull, grey, every-morning walk did not take long.

It was a good opportunity, they had said. A promotion to a new position in the big city. And Matthew had never been good at confrontation, so he had simply said thank you, packed up his dull little life, and moved across the country to become another number cruncher lost in a faceless company. He had been here two weeks now, but no one in his office even knew his name yet. He was pretty sure no one even knew what he did.

Matthew suddenly had to dodge out the way of a man not watching where he was going. Just as he fell against a shop wall to avoid a head-on collision, it began raining heavily. Matthew groaned to himself. This day was starting even better than usual.

Matthew put his briefcase over his head and began to look for cover. His eyes darted along the street, looking for an awning or a ledge or any kind of shelter from the pelting rain. And then, like a bright burst of colour exploding into this grey morning, his gaze fell on the most colourful little shop window he had ever seen. He took a few steps closer, fascinated. Variously shaped and coloured cakes and pastries sat arranged like an art exhibit on white-clothed tables and silver tiers: little fruit tarts, pies topped with berries, plates of red and pink iced biscuits, white dusted muffins, cupcakes of every colour of the rainbow. Matthew almost forgot the rain as he stared at the visual feast, his mouth starting to water, his eyes drinking in the explosion of colour. But he quickly began to shiver, realised the rain was soaking through his clothes, and darted into the shop.

A cheerful little bell announced his arrival as the warmth of the place engulfed Matthew immediately. Inside, the burst of colour was even more intense, along with the sweet, delightful scent of melted chocolate and baking bread. The nostalgic sound of Edith Piaf's unmistakable voice flowed softly through the shop; elegantly framed black and white photographs of Parisian landmarks decorated the walls. A glass counter ran across the back of the room, separating the front of the small shop – the word 'cosy' sprang to mind - from a little serving area behind. Matthew felt strangely comfortable in here; oddly at ease as he looked around at the side shelves of even more exquisitely lovely sweets and pastries. He had already eaten breakfast – pancakes with maple syrup and a café latte at 7am sharp, the same as every morning – but he felt suddenly famished.

"_Bonjour, monsieur_!" Matthew looked up at the voice. The man behind the counter blinked as Matthew turned, his eyes widened, and he looked Matthew up and down. "Well, bon_jour!" _he said again, emphasising the second part of the word, then leant forward on the counter and smiled brightly. He had wavy blond shoulder-length hair and slight facial stubble on his handsome face, and was dressed in jeans and a flour-dusted apron. And there was something about the way he smiled, the way he leant easily on the counter, the way his dancing blue eyes ran across Matthew's body – Matthew felt himself blushing red, without really knowing why.

"_Bonjour,_" Matthew responded, somewhat hesitantly.

"Can I give you a… _hand_, by any chance?" Matthew had to pause and wonder whether the blond baker had actually meant it to sound like that. The man winked and Matthew's eyebrows shot up. Oh. He had.

"No, thank you. It's just…" Matthew looked down at himself, his suit dripping rain onto the floor. He was creating puddles all over the shop. "Well, it started raining, and I didn't want to get wet, but… well, it looks like I have anyway, doesn't it. I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to drench your floor. I'll just go."

"No!" The man said it so sincerely that Matthew stopped immediately. "No, please," the man continued, softer. "Stay there one moment."

Matthew waited, a little unsure, as the baker disappeared out the back door. He reappeared a moment later with a white, fluffy towel in his hands, then walked through a gap in the counter by the wall and handed the towel to Matthew. Matthew smiled carefully as he took it.

"Thank you," said Matthew as he placed his briefcase down and dried his hair, feeling a little awkward at using this stranger's towel. Now that he was so close, Matthew could see that the baker stood at an equal height to his own, those dancing blue eyes still travelling up and down. He smelt like caramel and spun sugar. And why did he keep looking at him like that? Like he was almost amused, his eyebrows raised and his lips curled upwards.

"But not at all. You are on your way to work?" The man's voice was heavily accented. He could possibly be from Quebec, but something about him seemed undeniably French.

"Yes," replied Matthew. "Or I was, before the rain caught me."

The man tapped his chin thoughtfully. "Let me guess. The suit tells me… investment banker?"

Matthew exhaled sharply in amusement. "Close. Accountant."

The man wrinkled his nose in distaste. "Oh, I do apologise." Matthew rolled his eyes and tried not to laugh. "But please, forgive my rudeness. My name is Francis. Welcome to _La Patisserie de la Rose_!" Francis held his hand out and Matthew took it in a firm handshake. Francis' hands were smooth with flour.

"Thank you. I'm Matthew." Matthew quickly found himself fascinated by those dancing blue eyes. Just what was going on here? This man certainly seemed interested in him. But then maybe he introduced himself to all his customers like this. "Your patisserie is… well, it's amazing. Do you make all these yourself?"

Francis nodded slightly, his expression pleased and proud. "Every one, my dear. I am an _artiste_, and these are my humble creations."

"They're incredible," said Matthew honestly, his eyes falling on a fully formed and intricately decorated gingerbread house, complete with marshmallow windows and liquorice latticework and even a chocolate chimney. "I can't believe I've never noticed this place before, and I walk past every day. Of course, I've only been in town two weeks." He realised too late that Francis had called him 'my dear' and felt just a little awkward again. But then, Francis seemed like the type of man who could get away with using endearments like that with virtual strangers. Or the type of man who simply didn't care.

"Two weeks, hmm? That makes sense. If you had been in before, I surely would have remembered."

No, he definitely seemed interested. Matthew had to wonder at the statement. He was not the type of person people remembered. He was not the type of person who was flirted with by complete strangers, either. Beneath the awkwardness and slight confusion, Matthew was also starting to feel strangely flattered.

"So exactly where on earth did you drop in from?" continued Francis easily.

"Just a little town up north. You wouldn't have heard of it… no one has. I must admit, I'm not used to a city this big."

"This is nothing to _Paris_, my dear." Francis pronounced it the French way, and Matthew nodded to himself. French – of course.

"Paris? I wondered about the accent."

Francis sighed dramatically. "_Oui,_ _Paris_, the city of my heart, and where I perfected my trade."

Matthew looked over a little table display of exquisitely embellished red velvet cupcakes, then back at Francis with a tiny, uncertain smile. "You are very talented." Matthew wasn't sure if he was flirting back, and wasn't sure if he wanted to. It was definitely not something he was used to.

"You are too kind to say so. But my artwork is not just for looking, Mathieu. Tell me." Francis' blue eyes twinkled playfully. "How can I tempt you this morning?"

Matthew tightened his grip on the towel. How did Francis make those innocent words sound so – well – un-innocent? Matthew swallowed and stammered. He had quickly reached the limits of his flirting ability. "Uh… well, I don't really know…"

Francis smirked and beckoned him with a finger before walking back to the counter. Matthew followed, slightly dazed, his eyes travelling downwards of their own accord. The way Francis walked - the phrase 'sex on legs' immediately entered Matthew's mind, and he mentally slapped himself for thinking something so ridiculous. He placed the towel down on a stool by the counter. Francis reached into the glass cabinet, pulled out a tray of bite-sized desserts, and laid them on the counter. Matthew studied them closely. Perfectly smooth, round, white meringues topped with little red berry tips. Matthew gasped when he realised what they were. "Oh!"

"My own version of the famous Nipples of Venus," said Francis, grinning wickedly. "Or, if you prefer, I have these…" Francis reached again into the cabinet, bringing out another tray of unusually shaped desserts, and laid them beside the meringues with a flourish. Matthew recognised immediately what these were. The miniature log éclairs had two little chocolate orbs attached at one end, and a darkened little sculpted end at the other.

"Oh!" said Matthew again, feeling his cheeks burn bright red. He had to stop himself putting a hand to his mouth, determined not to look like some sort of blushing schoolgirl. What sort of man made pastries like these? He forced himself to look directly at Francis. "Please tell me they're not cream-filled."

Francis laughed lightly, then gestured dramatically over the two trays. "So, Mathieu. Which do you prefer?"

Matthew's eyes went wide and his mouth almost fell open. Surely, he couldn't be asking… Francis winked. Oh. He was asking. The room felt suddenly very hot, despite Matthew's wet clothes. Well. This was one way to ask a sensitive question… Matthew took a deep breath, told himself to man up, and very deliberately reached out and picked up one of the little éclairs. Francis' grin widened. He looked positively thrilled. Matthew suddenly did not know what to do with his hands, with his eyes. Francis looked pointedly at the éclair in Matthew's hand and inclined his head slightly.

"Please. Tell me what you think."

And now came the dilemma of actually eating a pastry shaped like a penis in front of a man he'd just met. Matthew wasn't quite sure if there was a correct manner to do such a thing. But he certainly wasn't about to back down now, so he just met Francis' gaze evenly, and placed the éclair in his mouth. And then he forgot to feel awkward, or embarrassed, or any of it. Because this was the most amazing thing he had ever tasted. The hard chocolate layer cracked between his teeth and gave way to a silky, white chocolate centre that melted on his tongue. The contrast of textures played on his senses, the touch and smell and incredible taste of it; the brief richness of dark cocoa, the sweet burst of flavoured cream, the lingering lightness of sugar-dusted pastry. Matthew couldn't stop his eyes fluttering closed, the final taste like an explosion on his taste buds, and he swallowed almost regretfully. His fingers lingered on his mouth and he drew his bottom lip between his teeth, took a deep breath and sighed. "Oh, wow."

Francis laughed breathily and Matthew's eyes flew open. "Was it good for you?" asked Francis, his eyes slightly lowered, his cheeks just the tiniest bit darker.

"Wow," said Matthew again, unthinkingly. He had never tasted anything like that in his life. "That was the most incredible thing I've ever had in my mouth."

Francis looked quite self-satisfied. "I hear that a lot."

Matthew dropped his hand and laughed shakily. What a completely embarrassing, new, strange, amazing situation. "Uh, I mean... I'll take a dozen."

Francis shook his head and folded his arms. "No."

Matthew blinked his wide eyes, taken aback. "No?"

"No. I could not stand to have you make such a display without me there to watch. It would be a betrayal, darling." Matthew raised an eyebrow. Darling, now? "If you want more…" Francis' expression twisted deviously, "You'll just have to come back." Matthew wasn't sure whether to feel flattered or just really annoyed. He glanced back down at the plate of pastries, but Francis took it away and placed it back under the glass. "Uh-uh. I think I shall allow you… one a day, yes?"

"You can't do that!" said Matthew indignantly.

Francis smirked. "Oh, but I can, dear Mathieu. After all, I need some assurance that you will return to me, don't I?"

Despite his annoyance, Matthew felt a warm glow in his chest. Francis must really be interested in him to go to such elaborate lengths to see him again. Matthew studied the baker closely: his alluring smile and teasing expression, the seductive way he leant against the counter and gazed with heavy lidded eyes. Matthew realised that he wanted to see Francis again, too. He had never met anyone so brazen, so… intriguing. Matthew sighed and rolled his eyes in surrender. Francis grinned in triumph. "Fine. But it's terrible customer service. What do I owe you?" Francis frowned, and Matthew knew immediately he had said the wrong thing. He began to stammer an apology, but Francis just shook his head and clicked his tongue.

"Ever the accountant, no? Please, Mathieu." Francis placed a hand to his chest. "All I require in payment is the great pleasure of your company."

At the mention of his work, Matthew suddenly gasped. Oh, he had gotten so carried away… "Oh, no! I'm going to be late!"

"And such perfect timing. It has stopped raining."

Matthew jumped up and rushed for his briefcase. He looked out the window at the clearing skies and saw that Francis was right. "I'm so sorry, I have to dash! Oh no, and I've already been late twice this week… Um, thank you, Francis, and it was nice to meet you, and…" He turned back to see Francis resting his chin on his hand, smiling at him softly. Matthew immediately forgot the rest of his panicked rant.

"Tomorrow, yes? Until then." Francis waved his fingers lightly. "_Au revoir, mon cher."_

Matthew bit his lip, then smiled across the charming, bright little shop at the bold, captivating French baker. "Yes," he replied, nodding. "Tomorrow."

Matthew stepped out of the patisserie and, before taking off again down the street, glanced back at the door he had just walked out of. There was an intricate red rose carved into the wood. The entire patisserie was more like something from an enchanting little Parisian alley than this grey, industrial street where all the buildings looked the same and no one looked you in the eye. And yet, now, the dull, grey world seemed just a little bit brighter. Matthew spent the rest of the day thinking of Francis, of visiting the little patisserie again tomorrow. And Matthew realised, that for the first time in weeks, he was actually looking forward to something.


	2. Syrup und Sachertorte

**CHAPTER TWO**  
><strong>Syrup und Sachertorte<strong>

.

"And this one is made with the very best dark Swiss chocolate, blended with vanilla and the slightest hint of chili, then melded to perfection within my own trademark cinnamon-spiced choux pastry."

Matthew's eyes closed just briefly as he tasted the next bite-sized delicacy from the tray laid before him. The lovely accountant sat on a tall stool opposite Francis at the counter, his tie undone and his briefcase forgotten beside him. Francis could only smile in delight, almost letting a small sigh escape his lips. He could watch Matthew taste his delectable creations all day. At this stage, he was intending to do just that. For almost a week now Matthew had been coming to his patisserie every morning, brightening Francis' day just as it began, giving him something to look forward to every night. Francis had asked Matthew about his work at first, but it quickly became obvious that the accountant did not wish to speak of it. So instead they spoke of their homes, of music and art, of food and sport and travel. And the more Francis found out, the more he realised he wanted to know. Of course, he was ridiculously attracted to Matthew. How could he not be – he was gorgeous, and his hair was fabulous. But Francis also wanted to talk to him, hear how he was, hear how he thought… he did not just want to sleep with him. He wanted to do that too, of course, so badly it was painful. Which really made him wonder why he hadn't even broached the subject yet. After all, it had been a week - anyone else and Francis would have slept with them and forgotten them by now. It struck Francis that this was the longest relationship he had ever been in, and it was not even a relationship.

It was now Friday afternoon and to Francis' utter joy, Matthew had stopped in on his way home from work. The smell of baking bread wafted from the kitchen, the voice of the divine Miss Piaf flowed from the speakers, and the golden afternoon seemed to stretch on forever. A few customers came and went, but Francis' entire focus was on the charming young man before him.

"Oh," said Matthew after swallowing the chocolate pastry. He laughed softly, shaking his head in amazement. "How do you do this, Francis? Just when I think I have tasted the most delicious thing ever created, you present me with something better!"

Francis knew he was the best pastry chef to ever come out of Paris, but hearing these compliments from Matthew somehow meant more than the thousands he had received before. He shrugged modestly and gave Matthew a tiny, teasing smile. "My dear, it is now my goal in life to keep surprising you."

Matthew smirked, gazing up through lowered lashes. "A goal I believe you will have no trouble accomplishing."

Francis felt his heart thump a few swift, heavy beats in his chest. He was never quite certain if Matthew meant to be seductive when he spoke like that, when he looked at him like that; but the mystery just made him even more appealing. Francis hadn't had this much fun flirting in years. "I am flattered by your faith in me."

"Well honestly, Francis," Matthew continued, sitting straighter and brushing the sugar lightly from his hands. "You're a magician!"

Francis placed a hand to his chest and gave a tiny bow. "And you are too charmingly kind."

"What I really want to know is how you are not the size of a house!" Matthew looked down at himself critically. "One week visiting your patisserie and I am certain I have gained ten pounds."

Francis scoffed. The man could sell gym memberships. Wide shoulders, narrow waist, slender with what looked like the perfect amount of muscle beneath that suit… Francis let his eyes wander. "Nonsense, you are flawless. And it is all about moderation, no? Besides, I like a man with a little… softness to him."

Matthew reddened, but laughed at the same time. "Well, uh, I suppose that's a good thing. Much more of this and I'll turn into a pastry myself."

Francis grinned delightedly. "Then I would have to eat you, darling." Matthew really did walk into these things, sometimes. "And I am sure you would be delicious." Matthew rolled his eyes mockingly, but his cheeks were still that delicious shade of red. A hot, wild flutter pulsed through Francis' veins. Time to see just how far he could push. "I have been working on something special today." Francis spoke slyly, leaning forward across the counter.

"Oh?" asked Matthew interestedly, his blue eyes bright and intrigued behind his charming wire glasses.

"These," Francis gestured over a row of miniature crepes on the tray before him, "Are made with a very special secret ingredient."

Matthew glanced down then up with slightly narrowed eyes and parted lips. "Do tell me more, _monsieur_."

Francis leant closer to Matthew and lowered his voice. "A great chef never gives away his secrets."

Matthew leant in also, until their noses almost touched and Francis could smell his hair. "What if I promise to never tell a soul?" he whispered.

Francis had to bite back a groan of desire. He was used to this feeling of intrigue and attraction. What he was not used to was this overwhelming swelling in his chest when Matthew smiled, this intense wave of heat that spread through him when Matthew blinked slowly. Francis clenched his hand, digging his nails into his palm. "Well," he said, forcing himself to smile smoothly, "If it's a promise…"

Matthew raised a hand in a oath-taking gesture. "Scout's honour."

Francis pulled back sharply and gasped in horror. "Please tell me you weren't a boy scout, darling."

Matthew gazed back at him evenly, impassive and serious. "Of course I was. That is where I acquired my impressive knowledge of knot tying. And where I learnt never to take candy from strangers."

Francis raised an eyebrow deviously. "Knots, hmm? And..." He looked pointedly down at the tray of pastries. "Candy?"

Matthew's lips twitched upwards ever so subtly. "I never said I was a _good_ scout."

Francis suddenly felt far too hot for this cold autumn day – he had the immediate urge to fan himself. He chuckled softly. "Well, now I _really_ don't know if I can trust you with my secrets."

Matthew waved a hand. "I swear to you, I'm a vault. Your naughty little secrets are safe with me, Francis." Then he winked, and Francis nearly bit his tongue in half. Oh, this was too much. The way Matthew blushed just slightly at Francis' bold flirtations, but never backed down or looked away. The way he knew just how to respond to keep Francis intrigued and on his toes. Matthew still had a straightforward sort of innocence about him, but he was no bashful submissive. Francis was finding Matthew's unique blend of sweet and snark intoxicating.

Francis sighed dramatically and spread his hands in defeat. "Very well, you win." He reached down slowly, picked up one of the miniature rolled crepes, then lifted it delicately. Matthew's eyes followed his fingers the entire time. Francis smirked. "Maple syrup, my darling."

Matthew's mouth fell open and his wide blue eyes shot up to meet Francis'. "Oh," he breathed, his shoulders tensing, his bottom lip catching between his teeth. His chest heaved as he took a deep breath; his eyes darkened as they fell back down to the crepe. Francis felt his veins burn beneath his skin. "Oh," said Matthew again, his cheeks still blushing red. "Maple syrup?"

Francis could feel his grin growing feral. But God, when Matthew breathed and sighed and blushed like that, how could he control himself? "Your favourite, wasn't it?" he asked teasingly.

"Yes." Matthew responded too quickly. Francis could see his feet twisting beneath the glass counter.

Francis silently congratulated himself. He had just found the secret ingredient to immediately turn the tables in his favour. "Would you like…" he let the sentence trail into anticipative silence.

Matthew gasped, soft and expectant. "Yes! Let me try, please…"

The way Matthew said 'please' shot straight to certain parts of Francis' body, hot and fierce and craving. A week suddenly felt like a very, very long time. "Well, of course you may try." He made as though to pass the crepe to Matthew, who leant forward expectantly until Francis suddenly stopped and drew back. He just smiled pleasantly when Matthew furrowed his brows. "Tell me, Mathieu. What are you planning to do with yourself this weekend?"

Matthew looked cravingly at the crepe between Francis' fingers, but then met Francis' teasing gaze steadily. His eyes immediately narrowed. "Not much. I still have a few boxes I haven't unpacked."

Francis had to give Matthew credit. His breath was still a little fast, but once he knew Francis' game, he seemed determined not to lose it. "No, no, no my dear," Francis winked. "I have a better idea. What do you think of... oh, but what am I doing. Here. Try this first." Francis held the crepe before Matthew's lips. Matthew eyed it warily, even after his earlier display.

"Why?"

Francis forced himself not to laugh with delight. "Because then you will not be able to say no!"

Matthew raised his eyebrows. "Well. I'll have to test that."

Matthew's lips were so soft, so warm against Francis' fingers. Francis again clenched his other hand and bit his lip to hold back a moan. He felt the briefest touch of Matthew's tongue on his fingertip and it shot through him like an electric shock. Matthew's eyes fluttered shut, then opened slowly, then met Francis' with a dark, burning intensity.

The bell above the door jingled cheerfully and a loud voice resounded through the shop. "Where's my cake?"

Matthew shot backwards and quickly covered his mouth with his hand. Francis groaned inwardly. Why, why, why? Of all times... Introducing Matthew to his overly confident, unbearably loud, and stubbornly narcissistic German best friend was not part of Francis' plan of seduction.

"Gilbert!" cried Francis with sarcastic delight and genuine frustration. "Perfect timing as always."

Gilbert barrelled through the shop, grabbing a cupcake as he went. "Yeah, yeah, I'm here for my party cake and it had better be amazing."

"I thought the party was a surprise." Francis addressed the sentence to Roderich, who followed resignedly behind the practically bouncing German.

"You know what he's like." Roderich snatched the cupcake from Gilbert's hand and glared at him warningly.

Francis knew exactly. The slightest hint someone was doing something for his birthday, and Gilbert would have pushed and pried and wheedled and whined until he found out every last detail. Gilbert grinned smugly. "You can't hide anything from me, suckers."

"Antonio told him," said Roderich simply.

Francis rolled his eyes. Of course Antonio told him. "Why am I not surprised. Regardless, Gilbert, you are early, _mon ami."_

"What are you talking about, it's nearly six! You'd better have my sachertorte ready or I…" Gilbert broke off, staring at Matthew as though he had only just noticed him. His expression turned briefly blank before his lips spread in a delighted, wicked grin. "Let me guess. You chose the éclair."

Matthew turned red. Francis gritted his teeth. Roderich thumped Gilbert on the shoulder.

"Ow! What? That's spousal abuse right there, I could file a lawsuit..."

"I must apologise," said Roderich, smiling at Matthew, polite and dignified as ever. "Gilbert's social intelligence never progressed beyond a fourth grade level."

"Roderich, Gilbert!" said Francis loudly, interrupting before Gilbert could come out with something inappropriately vulgar. "This is Matthew. A friend of mine. We were _busy_." Francis spat the word at Gilbert, who just wagged his eyebrows.

"I'm pleased to meet you," said Matthew softly. Francis' chest swelled a little and his spine tingled as he watched Matthew get hesitantly to his feet. This shyness that showed through occasionally was too enthralling. And to think only moments ago those softly smiling lips had been against Francis' fingers...

Roderich took Matthew's hand in a polite handshake. "Likewise." Roderich's manners were, as always, impeccable. Francis never was quite sure just what the refined Austrian saw in Gilbert, who was now leaning against the counter and eyeing Matthew up and down.

"So, Matt, tell me. How long did it take _mon ami_ Francis?"

Matthew looked puzzled. "How long?"

"Yeah, you know." Gilbert pointed to the infamous éclairs under the glass counter. "To get from one of those in your mouth to…"

Francis grasped Gilbert by the collar, hauled him forward, and hissed in his ear. "One more word and I swear I will tell Roderich about that lap dance in New York last month."

Gilbert narrowed his eyes. "Well played, sir." When Francis released him, Gilbert cleared his throat and straightened his collar. "Get me my damn cake."

Francis smirked triumphantly. "One moment, good sir." Francis walked out the back, hearing Roderich behind him.

"What was that, Gilbert?"

"Nothing! Is it hot in here? So, Matt, what do you do? Let me guess, investment banker. Hey, are those maple syrup crepes?"

Francis retrieved his brilliant sachertorte from the kitchen, then arrived back at the counter to find Gilbert helping himself to the crepes and Roderich asking Matthew politely about his work. Francis was just about to rescue Matthew from a topic he knew the accountant hated, when Gilbert reached over and dragged him down the counter. "What the hell is going on here?" Gilbert hissed. "Have you even asked Mr Studly Accountant out yet?"

Francis did not want to explain this now, and not like this. He knew his friends would not understand, and would think this attraction was just the same as all the others. "Look, I've only known him a few days."

Gilbert looked at Francis blankly. "Are you joking? A few days? Last week you picked up in a men's room."

Francis' glanced worriedly over at Matthew. "Shh, keep it down!"

"We were supposed to see a movie!" Gilbert spoke far too loudly. "Then you duck into the bathroom for two minutes and the next thing I know you're taking some guy home!"

"Look, that wasn't exactly how..."

"I had to watch it on my own! Do you know how dodgy that looks, a grown man watching 'Puss in Boots' on his own? I thought someone was gonna call the police!"

"_Merde,_ Gilbert, will you just…"

"Man, all I'm saying, is that if you can pick up in the time it takes to piss then a few days is like a long term relationship."

Francis glared. Gilbert stared back. "Are you done?" asked Francis finally. "You do know you are incredibly crass, don't you, my dear?"

"Psh, you sound like Roderich. The way I see it there's only three possible explanations here." Gilbert ticked off his fingers. "One; you don't like him. Two; he doesn't like you. Three…" Gilbert grinned. _Merde,_ he could be so obnoxious with that disgusting grin. "You _really _like him."

So maybe his friends would understand after all. Francis shrugged in an attempt at nonchalance. "And what if I do?"

Gilbert's eyes lit up in that familiar, worryingly evil way. "Ohhhh. Well, well." He grinned again before racing back down the counter. He sidled up beside Matthew and leant in far too close. "Matt, my friend. I'm not sure if Francis has told you yet, though I don't know why he wouldn't, but there is an awesome party planned for tomorrow night to celebrate the momentous and world-changing occasion of my birth into the world twenty-eight years ago. You will, of course, be attending."

Matthew looked a little bewildered. "I will?"

"You will. Shindigs at Chez Beilschmidt tend to get a little wild, so bring a change of pants." Francis slapped his hand to his forehead as Gilbert continued. "As for presents, I'm partial to silk trousers, seventeenth century carved smoking pipes, and custom My Little Ponies..."

"Please don't bring a thing," interrupted Roderich.

"Aw, nah, at least get me some socks or something..."

"Feel free to ignore him, everyone else does." Roderich kicked Gilbert in the shin, somehow managing to do it elegantly. "But Francis must have invited you. We will see you there, of course?"

"Well, uh," Matthew glanced at Francis just briefly. "That sounds great, but… Francis hasn't actually invited me."

Francis gulped as both Gilbert and Roderich glared at him. Gilbert shook his head in disgust. "You tactless French bastard."

"ME tactless? My dear, coming from you, that is richer than your beautifully crafted sachertorte. Besides, you interrupted me before I had the chance."

"No more of these excuses. I am embarrassed for you, Francis. I thought you were good at this sort of thing, you've had enough practice..." Gilbert's verbal attack turned into an incoherent shout when Roderich again kicked him in the shin. "Damn it, man, will you stop physically attacking me today!"

Roderich swiftly and gracefully took the cake box from the counter before guiding Gilbert insistently to the door. "We must be leaving. Thank you for the cake, Francis. It was lovely to meet you, Matthew, and I do hope to see you tomorrow evening."

Gilbert glared at Francis, wide-eyed and intense, even as Roderich dragged him by the collar. He pointed two fingers at Francis, then at Matthew. "Man up, bro."

The door slammed shut behind them and Francis let out a deep breath. Matthew looked slightly overwhelmed.

"I do apologise," said Francis, annoyed at the interruption but flashing a charming smile. "It is usually best to be introduced to Gilbert slowly. Or not at all."

Matthew shook his head and straightened his tie awkwardly. "No, I should be the one to apologise. When I said you hadn't invited me, I did not mean to sound like... like I expected you to, or..."

"You didn't?"

Matthew looked crestfallen for a moment before covering it with a blank expression. "I'm sorry, I did not mean to put you on the spot." Francis mentally kicked himself - Matthew must have misunderstood. "I thought..." Matthew persevered, "I mean, _they_ must have thought there was something between us. Oh, and that crepe was incredible, by the way."

Francis held back a giggle. "I know it was."

"Whatever you were going to ask me before we were interrupted, the answer would have been yes."

And now Matthew was utterly adorable again. Francis felt his heart jump, and knew he couldn't play around and ignore the point any longer. "Is that so? I'm glad to hear it, because I am afraid we now have a dilemma."

Matthew's eyes brightened hopefully, but his expression remained unsure. "We do?"

Francis leant his arms on the counter and lowered his head, his eyes narrowing and his lips turning in a familiar manner of seduction. "I can not possibly let our first date be to my obnoxious friend's birthday party."

Matthew's hope-filled eyes widened and he tilted his head inquisitively. "Date?"

"Yes, my dear, which leaves us with only one night to rectify this situation, and one possible option. Have dinner with me. This evening."

Matthew blinked silently a few times before a slow, shy smile spread across his face. He brushed his hair back and shrugged in an obvious attempt to look nonchalant. "Sure. Why not."

Francis felt his cheeks turn warm at the captivating smile. If there had been any doubt Matthew was interested in taking this further, it had just been utterly crushed. "Wonderful, darling! And I know the perfect place. Tell me... do you like Italian food?"


	3. Vino y Pasta

**CHAPTER THREE**  
><strong>Vino y Pasta<strong>

.

"Maybe this was not the best idea."

Matthew took one look at Francis' worried expression and felt his heart sink to his stomach. Francis had changed his mind. Matthew had been too boring, he hadn't spoken enough, he'd spoken too much, he didn't know how to flirt properly, he'd done this all wrong… "Oh. That's okay. I mean, I understand if you've changed…"

"No, no, no, my dear!" Francis smiled reassuringly and placed his hand lightly on Matthew's back. Matthew felt the touch like a burning, swelling spark beneath his skin. "Asking you on a date was, I believe, the best idea I have had all year. I'm just not certain if I chose the best place."

"Oh?" Matthew glanced around the bright, busy restaurant. What could Francis possibly be concerned about? The place seemed perfect.

"No, it should be fine." Francis spoke softly, as though to himself. "I'm sure they don't work on Fridays…" He was interrupted by a shriek.

"FRANCIS!" A short, grinning, amber-haired young man bounded across the full restaurant, pushing past bustling waiters and crowded tables, and threw his arms around Francis. "François, _grand frère_, I haven't seen you for so long! Not since Tuesday! Did you bring me cupcakes? No? That's okay, you can make me some for tomorrow night, with rainbow icing and sprinkles and you are going to Gilbert's party tomorrow night, aren't you? Did you know Antonio told him? Lovino was so cranky. Well, crankier than usual."

"Ah, Feli," said Francis, a forced smile on his lips. "So you _are_ working tonight."

"Of course! It's been so busy we need all the staff we can get!"

Francis took Matthew's arm and started to slowly back away. "Is that right? I'm sure there are no free tables, then. Oh well, I guess we will be leaving…"

"No! Don't be silly! There's always room for family. I'll get you a table. LOVINO!" Francis winced at the shout and smiled apologetically at Matthew. The young man burst into a steady stream of rapid-fire Italian, quickly answered by further shouting from the kitchen across the room. No one in the restaurant seemed to take notice.

"I'm sorry," said Francis softly, speaking into Matthew's ear. "Like I said, maybe this wasn't…"

"No, it's fine!" Matthew had never been to a place like this before. The sound of loud speech and boisterous laughter blasted from every table; the smell of tomato and roasting garlic filled the air; vivid drawings of colourful food and the Italian countryside covered the walls. It felt warm, lively, friendly. In some strange way, it reminded Matthew of Francis' patisserie. The cheerful young man turned back towards them and spoke again in English.

"I'll show you to your usual table, of course you know the way though, you're lucky it's free because there's so many people tonight and oh!" The man broke off, stared wide-eyed at Matthew, and gasped loudly. "Hello!"

"Uh. Hello."

"Hello!" The little Italian put his hands to his mouth then wrung them frantically. "I'm so rude. Oh gosh, I'm sorry, I'm so rude, I didn't even… hello."

Matthew tried not to laugh. "Hello."

"Feliciano," said Francis, breaking smoothly into the short, broken excuse for a conversation. "This is Matthew. Matthew, my little cousin Feliciano."

Matthew held out his hand but, to his surprise, Feliciano threw his arms around him and squeezed him tightly. "_Benvenuto, _Matthew! I'm so, so happy to meet you! Welcome to _Casa Vargas!_ Wow, you must be really special, you're the first one of Francis' boyfriends he's ever brought here! Well, I say boyfriends, but everyone knows Francis only uses them for s…"

"SO!" Francis shouted. "How about that table, Feliciano?"

"Oh, yes!" Feliciano released Matthew and bounced off into the restaurant. "Follow me!"

Matthew tried not to dwell on that earlier statement of Feliciano's, instead allowing Francis to take his hand and lead him through the bright, crowded room. He wondered if his work suit was tidy enough, then wondered if he was overdressed, then worried whether Francis expected to pay the bill, then hoped people weren't staring at their clasped hands, then Francis looked back and smiled. "I had no idea it would be this busy!"

Every doubt and worry flew from Matthew's mind. His cheeks turned warm and he returned the smile shyly. "I suppose that means the food is fantastic!"

His eyes fixed on Francis', Matthew barely noticed they had stopped until Feliciano turned and gestured theatrically to the table beside them. "Your table, _signori! _I shall return with your wine shortly!" He stared at Matthew, giggled, said, "Hello," once more, then ran off into the kitchen. Matthew reluctantly released Francis' hand, felt the need to let out a deep breath, and sat slowly at the table.

"He's, uh… cheerful."

"You have no idea, _mon cher_." Francis threw a quick, strangely nervous glance after Feliciano before taking the seat opposite Matthew.

The table was situated in a back corner of the restaurant, slightly removed from the other diners, which gave it a private, secluded feel. This had all happened so fast, but it suddenly struck Matthew that he was on a date – a date with a man he was very, very interested in. When was the last time that had happened? Actually, when had that _ever_ happened? His natural shyness overtaking him, Matthew could only stare at the table. This was real now, this was a date, not just a casual morning at the patisserie before work. Matthew did not quite know what to say, what to do with his hands. He absently pushed the wine glass across the crisp white tablecloth, then reached out and touched the small candle holder in the centre of the table. Unexpected heat spread through his fingers. "Oh!" he said in surprise. "It's real!"

"Excuse me?"

Matthew looked up to see Francis staring amusedly at Matthew's fingers brushing over the little glass jar. Matthew immediately dropped his hand. "Oh, nothing, really. It's just, so many restaurants have those fake candles these days. It is nice to see a real one. It's more…"

"_Romantique_?"

Matthew felt his lips twitch and his skin warm at that familiar bright-eyed smile, that lilting, teasing tone. "I was going to say, honest."

"Of course. That describes the place quite well, really."

Matthew glanced around at the tables of families arguing over pizza, the couples gazing at each other over glasses of wine. "It is lovely. Warm and friendly. And your family own it?"

Francis nodded. "The Italian branch."

"There are branches?"

"Darling, my grandfather scattered children across the Mediterranean like petals to the wind. I am quite certain that entire future generations in the region would be able to trace their ancestry back to the man." Francis winked. "If only his grandchildren were the type to procreate."

Matthew leant forward, intrigued. "Which they're not?"

At that moment, Feliciano reappeared like a colourful miniature tornado beside them, grinning and bouncing and brandishing a bottle of red wine. "_La vostra bottiglia di vino rosso, signori_! Or, _votre bouteille de vin rouge, Messieurs_!"

"Or, _Ihre Flasche Rotwein, Herren_." Matthew shot a wry smirk at the bouncing brunet, who went immediately still, his eyes widening and his mouth dropping open. Matthew started to worry that he might have been rude or inappropriate, when Feliciano finally shouted a response.

"_O mio Dio_, Matthew, you speak German!"

"Oh, um..." Matthew blinked a few times, taken aback. He had only meant it as a light-hearted, throwaway reply to Feliciano's swift change of language. "Well, only a tiny bit, that was probably incorrect, I was just…"

"Can you teach me to say something?" Feliciano interrupted eagerly, his expression bright and earnest and intense. He didn't seem to notice Francis take the wine from his hand and proceed to pour it into the two glasses on the table. Matthew looked to him for help but Francis just suppressed a laugh behind a falsely innocent expression.

"Well, I'll try if I…"

"Can you tell me how to say, 'I love you?'" asked Feliciano excitedly.

Matthew's features relaxed into a soft smile. What a charming thing to ask. "Of course. It's _'Ich liebe dich'_."

Feliciano's eyes were as wide as saucers and he practically jumped on the soles of his feet. "Oh! Thank you so much! Can you write it down for me? I'll have to get you a pen but ooh, first, also, how do you say, 'You're handsome and perfect'?"

Matthew bit back a laugh. Feliciano was too adorable. "_Sie sind hübsch und perfekt."_

"_Grazie_, Matthew!" said Feliciano breathlessly. "Just one more thing. How do you say, 'Fuck me harder, you magnificent, filthy German sex pig?'"

Matthew gasped, choked, and promptly broke into a fierce coughing fit. Francis smoothly pressed a glass of wine into his hand. Matthew gulped it down swiftly.

"Feli," said Francis lightly, "I don't think Matthew's German vocabulary extends that far. Why don't you ask Gilbert?"

Feliciano's face lit up. "Of course! Gilbert! Why didn't I think of that already? _Merci, _François_, grand frère!"_ Feliciano bounced off again happily. Matthew glared at Francis over his glass, his eyes slightly wet from coughing.

"Why do I get the feeling that was quite a cruel suggestion?"

Francis shrugged innocently and took a sip of wine. "I've no idea, _mon cher_."

Matthew drank as well, bringing the last of his coughing under control. Well, that was certainly unexpected. "So, who is the magnificent, filthy German… uh…" Matthew trailed into a mumble and Francis giggled airily.

"Gilbert's little brother. He and Feliciano have been together a year or so."

"I see. So that's what you were referring to, earlier."

Francis winked, his dark blond hair falling across his sparkling blue eyes. "Let's just say that Grandpa has long resigned himself to the fact that he is unlikely to have great-grandchildren."

"Oh." Matthew paused to adjust to this new information. Meeting Francis' friends Gilbert and Roderich had been eye-opening in itself. Matthew was not used to meeting other gay men so openly; not in everyday situations like this. Yet Francis seemed to be surrounded by them. It was a far cry from Matthew's sheltered, small town upbringing. "So you know a lot of…" Matthew faltered over the sentence, but pressed on resolutely, "…gay men, do you?"

Francis laughed and settled back in his chair. "Darling, you've no idea!"

Matthew finished his glass of wine, feeling strangely small and ignorant. "I can't even imagine. I knew two other gay guys growing up. And one was my brother Alfred."

Francis' eyes lit up with interest. "You never told me you had a brother."

Matthew immediately regretted bringing the subject up. Even living in another city, another country, Alfred had overshadowed Matthew their entire lives. "Half brother, actually. We weren't even raised together, except for the holidays. His father is American - that's where he lives. The general consensus is that he's a more popular, more successful, better looking version of me."

Francis frowned disbelievingly. "More popular and successful, possibly. Better looking? I simply refuse to believe it, darling, unless this Alfred be a God."

Matthew scoffed incredulously, even as his neck burned at the praise. "Some might agree with that assessment of Alfred's divinity." Matthew was used to living in Alfred's shadow. But Francis made him feel special, for the first time in his life, so he had so far avoided bringing up the topic of his famous brother. But it was not the kind of thing he could hide forever. Matthew sighed deeply, met Francis' gaze evenly, and prepared himself for the gasping and gushing he had come to expect on this topic. "My brother is Alfred F Jones."

Francis' eyebrows furrowed for a moment before his face brightened in cautious understanding. "Oh! The baseball player… no?"

Matthew blinked a few times, then had to choke back a sigh of relief. "Gridiron."

"Gridiron…" Francis tapped his chin thoughtfully. "_Ah oui,_ the silly game with the helmets. Yes, there was that scandal last year, wasn't there? The famous quarterback who came out and introduced his male English lover to the media. I vaguely remember seeing it in the papers. That was your brother?"

Matthew nodded. "I'm surprised you only heard it in passing. It caused a media meltdown in the States."

Francis waved a hand dismissively before reaching over to refill Matthew's glass. "I do not pay much attention to the news. I prefer to focus on positive things. Like my work, my patisserie. My friends. Art, music. Beautiful places. Beautiful people." Francis' compelling gaze held Matthew's as he pushed the glass towards him. "You, my dear." Francis' tone was blatantly seductive, the flash of his eyes sending a familiar shiver firing from Matthew's stomach downwards. Matthew picked up the glass to hide his reddening cheeks, but refused to lower his eyes. The lingering gaze was abruptly interrupted when a chair slammed down beside them and a dark haired man fell into it heavily. He leant against the table, his green eyes wide and unblinking, a daft but strangely discerning smile on his face.

"Hi."

"Hi," replied Matthew uncertainly, leaning away and holding the wine glass to his chest. What now? Another friend or cousin of Francis'? Why did they keep interrupting at the times like this?

The man's eyes flicked between Matthew and Francis, his expression positively beaming. "Hi."

Matthew wasn't sure whether to again respond in kind. Francis let out a resigned sigh. "Matthew, this is Antonio, a particularly irritating friend of mine. Antonio, can I help you? What are you even doing here?"

Antonio didn't answer. He leant towards Francis and hissed through clenched teeth, "Gilbert told me you had a boyfriend."

Matthew's stomach flipped at the word. _Boyfriend… _Francis just rolled his eyes. "Of course he did."

"He's cute." Antonio spoke in an exaggerated whisper.

"I know."

"He chose the éclair, didn't he?"

Matthew felt his cheeks burn. Did all of Francis' friends know about that? Francis glared at Antonio, who just smiled at Matthew obliviously. "What is this… this thing you're doing?"

Antonio turned to Francis, puzzled. "Thing?"

Francis let out an exasperated breath and touched his forehead. "This whispering thing. He can still hear you, you stupid Spaniard, he's right there."

Antonio scratched his head, turned back to Matthew, and broke back into a grin. "So pleased to meet you, Matthew. You're much better than looking than most of Francis' dates."

Now Francis hissed through clenched teeth. "Shut up."

Antonio ignored him. "Not that they're not good looking, only the very best for our Francis!"

Francis smiled desperately. "Please shut up."

Antonio beamed brightly. "So it's a compliment, you see."

Francis looked about ready to grab Antonio by the throat. "Oh _mon Dieu,_ why can't you ever just shut up?"

Matthew listened silently, a small concern prodding gently at his mind. Feliciano had mentioned Francis' dates earlier, also. And then there was Francis and Gilbert's strange, whispered conversation that afternoon. Maybe Francis really did have some secrets hidden away…

Antonio waved a hand in Francis' face. "Shush, Francis. Matthew, you are coming to Gilbert's party tomorrow night, yes?"

Matthew shook the concern away and told himself not to be silly. So Francis went on a few dates. So what? That didn't mean that he wasn't interested in Matthew. After all, most guys dated a lot. But Matthew had never acted or spoken with anyone like this. It was like Francis brought out a part of him he never knew was there. And now he couldn't help wondering if Francis felt the same. He couldn't completely silence the tiny voice that asked – _Does Francis treat everyone like this?_

Matthew suddenly remembered he had been asked a question, but Francis spoke before he could answer. "Speaking of Gil's _surprise _party, Antonio…"

Antonio groaned loudly. "Oh, will everyone stop already, you know what he's like! It wasn't even me who told him, Feliciano let it slip that we were doing something! And then Gil cornered me in the kitchen, and threatened me with a spoon, and said that he'd tell Lovino about that lap dance in New York…"

"What lap dance in New York?"

Matthew felt the atmosphere turn cold. He glanced up at the young man beside them. One hand held a platter of bread and olives; the other rested rigidly on his hip. He looked very similar to Feliciano, but with darker hair and an angrier expression. Antonio turned white, then chuckled nervously. "Lovino, baby! That was something involving Gilbert, nothing to do with me!" Antonio shot Francis a manically gleeful stare. "Right, Francis?"

Francis shrugged distantly, his expression mildly triumphant. "I've nothing to do with this, _mon ami_." Antonio narrowed his eyes, but Francis just smirked.

Lovino raised his chin and stared down at Antonio shrewdly. "Hmm. We'll see. Antonio, get your fabulous ass back in the kitchen. We're understaffed and you're supposed to be helping."

"I'm being social!" Antonio whined indignantly.

Lovino tilted his head slowly, a dangerous glint in his eye. "New York, was it?"

Antonio almost knocked the chair over in his haste to get to his feet. "I must be off! See you tomorrow night, Matt! Francis…" Antonio leant over the table and hissed in Francis' ear, just loud enough for Matthew to overhear. "Not one word. Don't forget that I've got far more dirt on you than you'll ever have on me, _amigo_." Antonio straightened up, kissed Lovino on the cheek, and rushed back to the kitchen.

"Thank you, Lovino," said Francis, his pleasant tone starting to sound a little strained. "Matthew, this is my other little Italian cousin."

Lovino dropped the platter on the table with a dull thud. He kept his eyes fixed on Francis and spoke before Matthew could say a word. "Whatever. Here's your entrée. What lap dance in New York?"

Francis' expression remained impassive as he picked up an olive from the plate. "Do you know, I believe you should bring that up with Roderich."

Lovino glared at Francis, then glanced sideways at Matthew. Matthew smiled tentatively back. "Right," said Lovino. He put his hands on the table and leant over Francis. "You'd better not be hiding anything from me, _cugino_. Don't go forgetting the things I know about you." Francis popped the olive in his mouth and smiled. Lovino stood straight, nodded at Matthew, then turned and marched into the kitchen.

Francis closed his eyes, released a deep breath, took a long sip of wine, and smiled apologetically. "I am truly sorry. But, where were we? Tell me more about… you." Francis wagged his eyebrows and Matthew suppressed a laugh. Instead, he raised an eyebrow and tried to look unimpressed.

"Really? Now? That's your line?"

Francis groaned and fell back in his chair. "It's no use, is it. I'm completely obstructed in here."

Matthew lowered his head to hide his amused smile. It was nice to see Francis as the flustered one, for once. "Well," he said, brushing his hair back and trying to wipe his smile away, "I've been telling you about me all week. There's not much more to tell."

Francis raised an eyebrow deviously. "There is always more to tell."

"Oh?" Matthew straightened up and raised his chin. "All right then, _François._" Francis upper lip twinged at the teasing tone. "Tell me. Why did you leave Paris? Some scandal, perhaps?" Matthew gasped softly, dramatically. "A jilted lover? A political outrage? A dangerous past starting to catch up with you?"

A tiny eyebrow twitch; the slightest rise at the corner of Francis' lip. He lowered his lashes and said breathily, "Do you really wish to know, _mon cher_?"

Matthew rested his chin on his hand and leant forward across the table. "I told you once, remember? I'd love to hear all your dirty secrets."

Francis groaned at the back of his throat, then sucked in a breath through his teeth. He shot forward until he was so close Matthew could feel his warm breath on his cheek. "If you insist. The truth is…"

"Where is he?" A deep, accented voice suddenly boomed through the noisy restaurant. "Where is the boy my Francis finally brought home to his grandpa?"

Matthew laughed in disbelieving disappointment. Francis closed his eyes and put his hands to his head. "Mathieu, my dear, we can leave right now…"

Matthew sat back and smirked. "I'm actually sort of enjoying watching you squirm."

Francis' blue eyes flashed then narrowed. "You sadistic little… Grandpa Roma!" Francis stood quickly and was immediately embraced by a tall, dark haired man who kissed both his cheeks. Matthew smiled pleasantly, prepared himself to remain polite and quiet and civil, and wondered how long this interruption would take.

"Francis, my boy! Where have you been lately? Too busy for your own family? No time to see your old grandpa?" Francis' grandfather looked surprisingly young. He had the same features as Feliciano and Lovino, but Matthew could see Francis in the man's wild gestures and dancing eyes. He held Francis at arm's length and looked him up and down. "Are you eating properly, Francis? You can't live on cake and biscuits, my boy!"

Francis' face was red. Matthew couldn't help thinking it was rather endearing. "Yes, Grandpa, I know. Now, please…"

"And, Matthew!" Roma released Francis and turned. Matthew scrambled to his feet and held out his hand, but, once again, was pulled into a strong hug. "Welcome, _benvenuto_!"

"Um… pleased to meet you…" Matthew choked out. Roma released him and he gasped for air. He was then pushed to arms length as Roma looked him over. From the corner of his eye Matthew could see Francis standing with one hand over his face.

"Oh, aren't you handsome!" cried Roma. "Good taste does run in the family. Well done, Francis, my boy, well done! What do you do, Matthew?"

"I'm an accountant," Matthew answered quickly.

"Accountant, hmm? What kind of tax breaks can you swing for us?" Matthew tried to stammer an uncertain response before Roma clapped him on the shoulder and laughed raucously. "Joking, I'm joking, Matthew!"

"Are you done?" asked Francis through tightly stretched lips. "I didn't actually realise the entire family would be working tonight." Francis' voice was dangerously strained.

"Of course you didn't! I'm sure you have more important things to do than be interrupted by your obnoxious relatives all evening. So…" Roma whistled and, seconds later, a waiter appeared carrying a plastic bag of food containers and a second bottle of wine. Roma smiled at Matthew and winked. "So get out of here."

Matthew decided he liked Francis' grandpa.

.

"This is incredible!" said Matthew for the third time, halfway through the most delicious carbonara he'd ever tasted. He had barely even paused so far to worry about the mess he was probably making, trying to eat fettuccine off his knees from a plastic container with a plastic fork. Of course he knew there were a few sauce stains on his shirt, and he was hyper-aware of Francis' eyes on him, but these smooth, rich, bursting tastes on his tongue made all of that too unimportant to worry about. Francis laughed softly beside him.

"The best pasta outside of Italy. Perhaps, even, anywhere."

Matthew stared out at the bright lights reflected on the water. This place really wasn't as bad as he had thought at first. Sitting here on this bench beside Francis, eating pasta and passing a wine bottle back and forth, the city actually looked quite beautiful. The night was strangely warm despite the season, a light dusting of stars shone faintly above the glittering skyline, and few people passed them where they sat on the walkway by the river. Matthew swallowed another mouthful of the creamy pasta, then glanced at Francis from the corner of his eye. "So, making magic with food is a family trait, is it?"

"A gift, and a curse." Matthew raised an eyebrow curiously. Francis' eyes twinkled with familiar mischief. "Legend has it that a distant relative was head chef to an Emperor of Rome."

"Oh?" With an effort, Matthew kept his twitching lips from turning in a smile. "Which one?" he asked, straight faced.

Francis waved a hand with effortless grace. He had finished his own pasta, but was still as perfectly neat and refined as always. Francis ate as elegantly as he did everything else. "Oh, one of those emperors who liked his food, you know."

"Caligula?" Matthew guessed randomly.

"_Oui_, yes, that will do. Anyway, this story goes, that the Emperor was to hold a very large, very important feast. The night before the feast, he called his head chef to the throne. The Emperor then told him that if he did not create the most wondrous, most amazing, most delicious meal ever tasted, then he would have the chef crucified." Francis paused to take a sip of wine from the bottle, then passed it to Matthew. "The chef was, naturally, rather worried. So he called upon the dark God of the underworld, Hades."

"As you do." Matthew hid a smirk by taking a swig from the bottle.

Francis' eyes narrowed just slightly, but he continued smoothly. "He made a pact with the God. In exchange for the greatest culinary talent known to the world, the chef would give his soul to the dark underworld. And in return, all his descendants would be blessed with the same talent, and the same curse. Unless…" Francis trailed off teasingly.

"Unless?" prompted Matthew, his eyes held to Francis' in an amused, magnetic gaze.

"Unless, through their talent, the descendant is able to make just one good, pure hearted person fall in love with them. If we can do this, we are saved from the curse."

Matthew raised his eyebrows sceptically. "One of pure heart? It's like a Disney movie."

Francis' voice, always smooth as liquid sugar, came slightly deep, amused, and almost rough. "Someone like you, _mon cher._"

A shudder of desire rippled through Matthew's spine, but he laughed dismissively and looked back out at the river. "How many boys have you given that line to, I wonder."

Francis ignored him. "But, there is a catch."

Matthew took a sip of the strong red wine. "Isn't there always."

"I feel you aren't taking this seriously, my dear." Matthew felt his eyes drawn back, and Francis' eyes seemed to challenge him. The look set Matthew's skin afire. He attempted a sarcastic smile, but wasn't sure he pulled it off.

"Oh no, please. Tell me. What's the catch?"

Francis reached for the wine bottle, wrapping his hand around Matthew's. Matthew felt the touch shoot downwards through his veins. Francis' returned Matthew's teasing smile… his was much more successful. "If we are able to make this good, pure hearted person fall in love with us, then we gain our soul… but we lose our talent."

"Is that right?" Matthew was fairly certain that his breathy tone ruined his attempt at sarcasm. "If that's the case then… is it worth it?"

Francis slowly raised the bottle to his lips, not releasing Matthew's hand around it. He drank slowly, his eyes not moving from Matthew's. "Love or renown. It is an easy choice, no?"

Matthew felt suddenly too vivid, too aware. Francis' firm warmth beside him, the gentle pressure of his fingers, the siren flash of his eyes. But even in this close, falling, blood-quickening moment, Matthew tried to shake the worries from his head, his concerns about the constant mentions of dates and boyfriends, the nagging doubt about how many times Francis had said these words. "It is an interesting legend," he finally managed to say. "Do you think you will evade the curse?"

Francis smiled and winked. "I'm working on it."

Matthew dropped his gaze, his neck burning. He put the lid back on the plastic container and placed it on the bench beside him, then took another sip from the wine bottle. He was beginning to really feel it's effects. "So, Francis," he asked abruptly. "Why did you leave?"

"Leave?" asked Francis, confused.

"Why did you leave Paris for Canada?"

Francis turned to face Matthew on the bench, then rested his elbow on the backrest behind them. "I hunger for new experiences, Mathieu. You never know what life will bring you. Sometimes it is hard to leave what you have always known; but then, sometimes it brings you something you would otherwise never have dreamt of."

Matthew felt warmth fill his chest at the words. It was like Francis was describing Matthew's own experience. He never would have dreamt that leaving his small, quiet town would lead him to someone like Francis. The entire evening since they had left the restaurant had flowed evenly, easily. It was so natural to talk with Francis, to just be with him. But more than natural; it was exciting. The not so subtle glances, the bright and hidden smiles, the flicks of hair and bitten lips and brief brushes of hands and feet. The awareness that they both knew what was going on and where this was leading; the sweet anticipation and aching wait to get there. But now that the night was growing quieter, and the silences between them longer, Matthew could not stop his mind going again through the earlier conversations. He asked the question before he properly thought it through. "Do you go on a lot of dates, Francis?"

Francis' sharp breath and brief silence gave the answer. But then he laughed flippantly. "Please, it is nothing. You know how friends and family are. They love to make such drama out of nothing."

Matthew accepted the response for the moment. After all, it was not his place to pry. "I understand. Alfred is the same."

"I would like to meet Alfred."

The very thought of it drained the blood from Matthew's face. He shook his head, eyes wide. "No."

Francis smiled, even as his expression turned puzzled. "Why not?"

Matthew said it before he could stop himself. "Because everyone likes him best."

Francis looked amused and sceptical. "We will see about that. But let us not speak of your brother. You did not tell me about work today."

Matthew could feel his face fall. He shrugged and stared at the river. "There is nothing to tell. It was the same as every day."

"You do not like your job."

Matthew's eyes shot up. Francis rested his chin on his hand, a mixture of curiosity and empathy on his face. Matthew sighed and shrugged one shoulder. "It is a job. I am lucky."

"But it is not a passion."

Matthew frowned, a little annoyed – what an unfair thing to say. "Very few people get to do what they love, Francis."

"And what do you love?" Matthew didn't answer. He didn't know how to answer. Francis just asked again. "What did you want to be? As a child?"

Matthew laughed shortly. "A professional hockey player."

"And why did you give up?"

Matthew rolled his eyes. "It's not a very feasible goal, is it?"

"Well, even if it is not... you love to skate? To play?"

Matthew looked down into the almost empty bottle as he thought about the question. He did love skating - so much. He hadn't thought of it in years. Because, well… because it was pointless, wasn't it? "Well… yes, but…"

"Do you still skate?" Matthew looked up at that. In the reflected light from the river, Francis' eyes seemed to pierce right through him.

"No. I have no time. But..." Matthew was unsure why he paused.

Francis tilted his head slightly. "But?"

"Well..." Memories rose unbidden. Gliding alone on a lake of ice as his breath misted before him and the sun descended in the clear, darkening sky. Racing across a busy skating rink, easily dodging slower skaters and leaving Alfred struggling to catch up behind. The heart racing excitement before every game, the wild, giddy thrill of winning which nothing since had ever managed to match. "I loved hockey as a kid. Even just skating around on the ice, on my own. I always thought it would be nice to own a little skating rink, one without the politics and snobbery you sometimes get. Just somewhere friendly, where kids could learn, with hockey and dance lessons and a little café by the rink." Matthew shrugged and brushed his hair back, a little embarrassed. "Huh. I've never told anyone that." Matthew startled when he felt Francis' hand touch his, brushing the hair from his face. The touch raised goosebumps on Matthew's neck.

Francis met Matthew's gaze, and was quiet for a few moments. His voice, when he spoke, was not teasing or laughing or rough. It was simply honest. "I hope to hear many more things you have never told anyone."

.

The walk to Francis' patisserie took twice as long as it should have. They ambled along slowly, arms almost touching, Matthew's stomach twisting in knots every time their hands brushed together briefly. They had barely spoken since leaving the river, but it felt perfectly comfortable like this. Like they did not need to speak. When Francis suddenly stopped it took Matthew a few moments to notice why - they were standing at the patisserie door. His twisting stomach flipped completely. He turned slowly to face Francis, their eyes meeting level.

"So. Well. Um. Thank you for your company." Matthew found himself reverting to politeness, as he always did when slightly nervous. "And for asking me to dinner. I had a wonderful time."

"I can not apologise enough for earlier..." Francis looked down at the ground and ran a hand through his loose blond hair. "Ah, it was a complete disaster."

Matthew snickered softly. "Well, yes. But interesting."

Francis sighed dramatically and raised his eyes from the ground to the sky. "How I wanted out first date to be perfect and romantic, darling. Not… 'interesting.'"

"Oh, it wasn't so bad." Matthew was actually rather relieved that Francis was not always as suave and perfectly charming as he had been at first. Matthew did not know how long he could have kept up with that. "Besides, this is turning out rather 'perfect and romantic' right here."

"Hm." Francis sighed softly and lowered his eyes again. "I do believe you may be correct, _Monsieur_."

Matthew's heart beat faster at Francis' piercing stare. "Besides, I enjoyed meeting your family. And I'll get to meet more of your friends tomorrow also, won't I?"

Francis' eyes narrowed, his expression slightly devious. "You're meeting far too many from my side. I shall have to get even, my dear."

Matthew shrugged apologetically. "It's only Alfred on my side, I'm afraid. Or, well, there is Kumajiro."

Francis' eyebrows shot up. He looked rather thrown. "Kumajiro?"

Matthew met Francis' eye as evenly as he could manage. "Yes. He lives with me. He shares all my secrets, and sleeps in my bed every day, and watches over me every evening." At Francis' puzzled expression, Matthew gave in and smiled. "My teddy bear."

Francis' face softened and he chuckled lightly. "Well. Just when I think you can get no more adorable, my darling."

Matthew looked down and wondered just where this was going: the constant eye contact, the hand brushing, this fluttering heat and this warm, familiar feeling. But he didn't want to push, he didn't want to mistake this, he didn't… but then Francis took a step towards him and rested his hand lightly on Matthew's hip. Matthew's eyes flew up and his lips parted. Heat spread from Francis' hand over his hip, across his back, through his stomach, shooting lower and spreading like fire. Francis' blue eyes burned into his and sent a flutter through Matthew's shoulders. He leant closer and, just as Matthew realised Francis was about to kiss him, he closed the final gap himself. Their lips touched firmly, softly, and Matthew moaned, unable to stop it.

This culmination of the week's glances and touches and playful words shot through Matthew like a jolt of electricity. He rested his hands on Francis' shoulders, then lowered them over his back. Francis pulled him closer by the hips and thrust further into the kiss. And oh, not that Matthew had a lot to compare him to, but Francis was the most amazing kisser in Matthew's limited experience. His tongue so light and firm, his lips gentle but strong, his soft hair tickling Matthew's cheek and smelling faintly of lavender; the overwhelming sense of Francis' feel and scent, the taste of tomato and mint and still the faintest hint of chocolate… Matthew reluctantly broke the kiss to gasp for air, faintly aware that he had barely breathed for a minute or so. He laughed shakily, his arms still holding to Francis firmly.

"Well," said Francis breathlessly, his lips brushing Matthew's as he spoke, "I suppose it is true what they say about hockey players."

Matthew quickly wracked his brains for an explanation. "Something about sticks?"

Francis stifled an amused snicker. "No. That they find an opening and get it in." Matthew just stared for a moment, a little thrown off. Thankfully, Francis clarified. "Hockey players. Find an opening. It's a dreadfully bad pun, I know. Um... this is terribly awkward. Can we just kiss again, please?"

Matthew nodded quickly. "Yes." The second kiss was as powerful as the first, but with bright, uncontainable laughter rising between their lips. Matthew had never felt something so right as this, so comfortable, so perfectly natural and easy and knee-weakingly arousing.

But what now? Was Francis going to ask him to come in? Was that how this worked? Matthew had only been on a few dates, but from what everyone said Francis seemed to have been on so many. He suddenly worried again just what that meant. Then he worried about that strange look of conflict in Francis' eyes, that slight uncertainty in his face, and again Matthew feared he had done something wrong. He started to drop his hands, but Francis grasped his arms at the last minute. "Have breakfast with me."

Matthew could only nod. "What time do you want me?" The words came out breathier than he intended. Francis groaned.

"Don't tempt me. As early as you can be here, darling. I start baking at four."

Matthew bit his lip, nodded, and tried to tell himself this was a good sign. Francis wasn't inviting him in, but he obviously still wanted to see him – he probably just wanted to take things slowly. "I like to sleep in on Saturday," said Matthew in what he hoped was an indifferent tone. "Shall we say, eight?"

"Mm." Francis pulled Matthew close again by the waist. All thoughts of indifference flew away at Francis' lips on his cheek, his lips, his jaw, his ear… "I shall await your arrival with bated breath and maple syrup crepes."

Matthew laughed shakily at the hot breath on his ear. "Then I shan't be late… _mon cher_."


	4. Beer und Pretzels

_Charlotte – Belgium_

_Lars – Netherlands_

_Bruce – Australia_

* * *

><p><strong>CHAPTER FOUR<strong>  
><strong>Beer und Pretzels<strong>

.

After a long, lazy breakfast, a perfect three course lunch, and a simply divine afternoon tea of verbena cupcakes, lemon tea, and lavender crème brûlée, Matthew was beginning to seriously consider a few things. The first was never eating again. The second was joining a gym. The third was leaping over the patisserie counter, grabbing Francis by the collar, and kissing the tempting, gorgeous, positively delicious baker harder than he'd ever been kissed before. Matthew brushed his hair from his heated forehead, a little flushed at the thought. All day he'd been fighting these indecent, blush-inducing mental images - all day he'd been losing. Since that intense, knee-weakening, downright lustful kiss the night before, Matthew hadn't been able to stop thinking of Francis in an even more stimulating manner than usual. That single kiss had promised so much more. This entire, perfect Saturday had promised so much more. The glances, the touches, the very brief kisses across the counter; Francis' voice smooth and teasing, his eyes light and sparkling, his fingers lingering gently on Matthew's lips…

"You had better head home soon, my dear."

Matthew blinked sharply, startled at the intrusion on his increasingly inflaming thoughts. "Huh? Home?"

Francis leant casually on the counter, his lips turned in a tiny smirk. He had a smudge of flour under his eye – Matthew thought it was too adorable to wipe away. "Yes, but only briefly. To change for Gilbert's party. Unless you wish to go as you are, covered in flour and chocolate…" Francis winked. "Either way, darling, you'll be fabulous."

Matthew looked down at the mess covering his shirt – the result of a failed baking attempt that had ended in a minor food fight - and felt his shoulders slump. Of course, the blasted party. He suppressed a groan, trying not to acknowledge his disappointment at the reminder. Matthew did not want to go out and share Francis tonight. He did not want to mingle with people he did not know and who would probably forget his name in five minutes. No, Matthew wanted to stay here in this warm, magical patisserie, wanted to smile and wink and brush hands; wanted to touch Francis and kiss him and press against him and maybe even…

"Mathieu?_ Mon cher?"_

Matthew raised his wandering eyes to Francis' knowingly amused gaze. He immediately cleared his throat and ducked his head. "Um, yes. Of course, that's right."

Francis furrowed his brow, concerned. "You don't exactly sound thrilled."

Matthew gave a small shrug. "To be honest, I'm a little nervous."

Francis' expression turned confused. "What do you possibly have to be nervous about? You've already met half the guests already."

Matthew paused. True, he _had_ already met Francis' closest friends – yet that somehow made him even more anxious. They were nice, sure, but also loud and a little overbearing and Matthew was never very good with people, let alone used to their attention, and… "Well… what if they don't like me?"

Francis' look of confusion turned to one of disbelief. "What utter nonsense, they'll adore you – how could they possibly not? Now stop thinking such ridiculous things, dress in something suitably tight and gorgeous, and just be your adorable, charming, fabulous self."

Matthew couldn't hold back a short burst of self-critical laugher. How had he managed to find the one person in the world who could possibly think of him as charming and fabulous? And why, when Francis said it, did Matthew almost believe him? "All right, _darling._" Matthew flicked his hair sarcastically. "I'll head home, doll myself up, and await your chariot."

Francis laughed brightly and reached for Matthew's hand, entwining their fingers across the counter. "If only I did have a chariot for _mon prince_. Will a taxi do?"

Matthew tried to sigh in mock exasperation. But the touch of Francis' hand sent a tingling shiver over his skin, and he was a little worried the sound came out more like a moan. Before he could embarrass himself further, Matthew drew back his hand, stood, and headed for the door. "Well then, I'll await your taxi. And they say romance is dead…"

Francis' bright laughter followed Matthew out the door and into the warm evening air. Oh, if only they could continue this perfect day alone and see where it led… Matthew sighed to himself, and silently cursed Gilbert for having the most terribly timed birthday in history.

.

Gilbert and Roderich's house was large, open, and spectacular. Matthew looked around, taking it all in, stunned and impressed. Guests filled the central entertaining room: mingling on the vast, polished floor, spread across the dark, elegant furniture, playing on a huge, lamp-lit billiard table. A long wooden bar ran along the wall, covered in a myriad of brightly-coloured bottles and glasses, while some sort of intolerable German heavy metal blasted from invisible speakers. On one side of the room a beautifully intricate staircase led to the upper floor, and on the other, wide glass doors led to a grassed entertaining area outside. The place looked like something from an architectural magazine, but it also had the most eclectic decorating style Matthew had ever seen. A bizarre sculpture of a beer bottle sat beside a gleaming grand piano in the corner; an intricately framed medieval music fragment hung next to a poster of Bert and Ernie.

"Wow," said Matthew softly, pressing close to Francis as other guests mingled around them, all in widely varied styles of dress and stages of intoxication. "What do Gilbert and Roderich do again?"

Francis leant closer to be heard properly over the blasting music. "Gilbert blows things up, and Roderich is a concert pianist."

Matthew glanced at Francis inquisitively. "Blows things up?"

"Demolition. Roderich is a very successful composer, as well as a performer, and he, uh…" Francis gestured around the stunning room. "… keeps Gilbert in the lifestyle to which he has become accustomed."

Matthew raised an eyebrow. A demolition worker and a composer... "So one creates for a living, and one destroys."

"How very poetic, darling!" Francis smiled brightly, sending Matthew's heart soaring. "That describes how they met, actually. Gilbert was in charge of a project to destroy an old heritage concert hall in town; Roderich was in charge of a campaign to save it. I am sure you can imagine, they did not get along very well when first meeting."

Matthew was immediately fascinated. "Gosh! How did they get together then? What happened to the hall? And how…" Matthew was abruptly interrupted as a small group pushed past, knocking him heavily into Francis as they went. Francis reached out to steady him and, almost unthinkingly, Matthew grasped his hand. He suddenly felt completely out of place, and smiled apologetically. "Sorry. I'm not very good with crowds."

Francis squeezed Matthew's hand. "You're perfect, darling."

Matthew felt warmth spread at Francis' words and from his touch, flushing up his neck and across his cheeks. He laughed nervously. "Sorry, um… what was I asking? Oh yes… about Gilbert and Roderich…"

Francis waved a hand. "That is a story for another time. Right now, I think we need a drink."

Matthew had to agree – it was getting far too hot in here. Francis led him to the bar and pressed a bottle of some unpronounceable German beer into his hand, which Matthew immediately gulped far too quickly. Francis started to pour a glass of wine, only to be unexpectedly accosted by a white-haired blur. The red wine spilt onto the bar as Francis spun around quickly. _"Mon Dieu,_ Gilbert, tell me you are not drunk already!"

"Drunk?" Gilbert grinned arrogantly. He was clutching a beer bottle, had a red party hat perched on his head, and wore a garish pink shirt that read '_Spank Me, It's My Birthday.'_ "Don't be stupid, I never get drunk. Matthew! What did you get me?"

Matthew turned red. Having spent the majority of the last two days distracted by food and Francis, he had not even thought about Gilbert's birthday present. And even if he had remembered, where was one supposed to get silk trousers or seventeenth century smoking pipes these days… "I… um…"

Thankfully, Francis drew Gilbert's attention by pulling a small, brightly-wrapped package from his pocket. _"Bon anniversaire, mon ami. _From the both of us."

Gilbert snatched the gift and began tearing into it. "What is it? You didn't get me socks, did you? Francis, if this is one of those weird leather g-strings like you gave me last year, I've already told you, those things aren't big enough to contain my enormous..."

"…ego," finished Roderich smoothly, a rather resigned smile on his face as he walked up beside Gilbert and squeezed his arm forcefully.

Gilbert paused his unwrapping and glared at Roderich sideways. "I was gonna say…"

"We are all quite aware what you were going to say, Gilbert, there's no need to be vulgar." Roderich smiled graciously. "Good evening Matthew; Francis. I'm sure Gilbert is being a courteous host?"

Francis scoffed loudly and took a sip of wine, but Gilbert just said, "Hell yeah, I'm a kickass party-giving guy." He picked up a bowl from the bar and offered it to Matthew with a grin. "Pretzel?"

Matthew smiled politely and shook his head. "No, thank you. But, happy birthday. And evening, Roderich. Your house is stunning. I love the, um…" Matthew paused. "…Bert and Ernie poster."

Francis snickered softly, but Roderich just sighed and rolled his eyes. "One of Gilbert's more tasteful decorating decisions."

Gilbert shrugged and tossed the pretzel bowl back onto the bar. "Hey, it's better than that silly little watercolour in the hall."

Roderich's expression was equal parts acceptance and disdain. "You mean the Monet."

"Whatever it's called." Gilbert went back to unwrapping his gift, muttering, "I was painting better pictures than that when I was five." Just as he pulled a small, flat box from the colourful paper, Gilbert was interrupted by someone jumping on his back and throwing their arms around his neck.

"_Feliz cumpleaños, mi amigo! _Haha, you're so _ooold! _You are so jealous now, I know it, because I am more young and beautiful than you shall ever be! Admit it, _amigo!_ Admit it!"

Gilbert clawed desperately at the arms across his throat. "Can't… breathe…" The laughing Spaniard dropped to the ground and Gilbert gasped for air. "Jesus Christ, Antonio…"

Antonio gasped loudly and pressed his hands against the ears of the bored looking young man beside him. "Do not speak such blasphemy in front of my little Lovi!"

Lovino batted the Spaniard away in irritation. "Will you get off me, bastard? Christ, you're so annoying!" The Italian gave a cursory wave to the assembled group before saying, "Roderich, there's something I need to speak to you about. Antonio, God damn it, stop pawing at me!"

Roderich nodded in relief, took a bottle of wine and two glasses from the bar, and gestured for Lovino to follow him. "It's odd you should mention that, Lovino, for there is something I have been wanting to speak of with you also…"

The moment Roderich and Lovino left, Antonio reached for Francis' arm. "Cousin Francis,I need to speak to you also. Alone. Please, no offence Matthew, this is something incredibly boring…"

Matthew immediately began to panic at the idea of being left alone in this unfamiliar situation. "Oh, okay…" He stared wide-eyed at Francis, who tried unsuccessfully to pull away from Antonio's grip.

"Antonio, _darling_," Francis spoke in a falsely cheerful tone through a forced, clenched smile. "I really think that this can wait…"

"No, no." Gilbert pushed the unopened gift box into his pocket before grabbing Francis' other arm, taking the wine glass from his hand as he did so. "I'm afraid I must agree. There are certain issues that can not remain undiscussed. Sorry, Matt, won't be long. Have fun, mingle, help yourself to the pretzels. Move it, Francis."

Francis shot Matthew a last desperate look before being dragged from the room. And then, Matthew was entirely alone. His heart fell in his chest, a tiny panic rose in his throat, and he took a very long sip of beer to try and calm himself. He glanced around the crowded room, lost and unsure, and backed up slowly against the wall. There was nothing to worry about, Matthew tried to tell himself. After all, no one ever seemed to notice him in these situations, anyway. But it was odd, really, how strongly it suddenly hit him: how strange and empty he felt in Francis' absence.

.

The kitchen was empty, almost silent, and smelt delicious. Muted music thumped through the walls and plates of food covered every surface of the enormous room. Francis almost growled in annoyance as Gilbert and Antonio practically threw him against the marbled island counter. "What do you think you are doing?"

Antonio threw open the fridge, grabbed three beers, and handed one to Francis, who snatched it wearily. "Just having a friendly conversation, _amigo,_" he said cheerfully, tossing the second beer to Gilbert.

Gilbert caught the bottle deftly, cracked it open, and took a swig. He then stepped in front of Francis, his eyes narrow and his hand on his hip; the very picture of authority if not for the red party hat and gaudy pink shirt. "Have you fucked him yet?"

Francis' blood boiled at the question, his shoulders straightening indignantly. "I beg your pardon?"

Gilbert rolled his eyes impatiently. "I'll rephrase. Have you engaged in sexual intercourse with him yet?"

Francis felt his eyes widen and his fist clench around his unopened beer bottle. "What?" he almost shouted.

"Matthew," explained Antonio, leaning on a nearby bench and picking at a bowl of pretzels in between sips of beer. "The sexy accountant."

Francis had to stop himself from smacking his own forehead. "I know who he's talking about, Antonio."

"Is he a top or a bottom?" asked Gilbert eagerly.

Francis glared. "What has that got to do with anything?"

Gilbert looked incredulous. "It has everything to do with everything!"

Francis sighed in frustration. "Gilbert, not everyone fits into these little roles you try and place them in."

"I'm guessing virgin." Antonio snickered. "Hey, Francis, hey, what if he's a virgin?"

Francis was actually a little worried about that. He did not want to think about it. "Virgins really aren't as fun as you might think, my dear."

Antonio snorted in agreement. "Oh boy, I hear that."

"What the hell are you talking about, my virgin was hella fun." Gilbert paused when the others stared, then continued quickly. "Anyway, Francis, I have to wonder if you got very far at all with the poor guy, since Feli told me you took him to _Casa_ _Vargas_." Gilbert shook his head, disappointed. "Bad move, man."

Francis told himself to breathe deeply. Gilbert and Antonio always spoke like this. But this time, when it was about Matthew, Francis felt himself growing irrationally angry. He tried to respond calmly. "Yes, _Casa_ _Vargas_ was an unwise decision, I am well aware. That is why we left early."

Gilbert's eyes lit up. "Let me guess. You felt him up in the men's room."

"Ooh, ooh." Antonio spoke through a mouthful of pretzels. "In the alley behind the restaurant!"

"Blew him in the taxi?"

"Fucked him in the doorway!"

Francis felt a snarl rise in his throat. Now this was _really_ going too far… "This is NONE of your business!"

Gilbert shot Francis a disbelieving look. "Since when is your sex life none of our business?"

"Since Matthew!" The words slipped out before Francis could stop them.

Gilbert and Antonio fell silent, raised their eyebrows, and glanced at each other knowingly. "I told you he liked this one," said Antonio.

"I knew it," agreed Gilbert.

Francis sighed as he realised what his friends were doing. Resigned to his fate, he opened the bottle in his hand and took a long sip. He didn't even like beer. "You could simply have asked, _mes amis_."

"You would have lied," said Gilbert, grinning triumphantly and leaning back against the sink. "So, how did the night go?"

"Not nearly so sordidly as you are no doubt thinking. No, we simply ate pasta and drank wine by the river." Yet as Francis said it, and as he remembered it, he could not help but smile. Matthew had been so sweet, so clever, so gorgeously challenging. "And then we walked back to the patisserie. And then…"

Antonio and Gilbert both leant forward. "And then?"

Francis tried to hide his smile behind his beer. This was ridiculous. He had regaled his best friends with the darkest, dirtiest tales of his sexual escapades a hundred times, and now he felt like a silly teenager. "And then we kissed."

Antonio actually squealed, effectively upstaging Francis in the 'silly teenager' department. Gilbert tossed a bottle cap at Antonio's head before asking, "Good kisser?"

"Marvellous, darling. But here is the thing." Francis quickly took another gulp of the awful German beer. "I did not ask him inside."

Gilbert's eyebrows shot up. "Why not?"

Francis paused before he answered, glancing between Gilbert's curious face to Antonio's brightly expectant expression. Why _hadn't_ he invited Matthew inside last night? Why had he not done everything in his power to get the gorgeous man into his home, into his bed? Francis wanted Matthew. He wanted him more than he'd ever wanted anyone. So what had held him back? Why had he not slept with the only man he'd ever felt he was falling in love with? _Was it because…_ "Because that is what I do with everyone. And Matthew is not just anyone. He is smart, and funny, and clever, and surprising, and sexy and…" Francis spoke slowly as he realised. "And I want everything I do with him to be as special and unique as he is."

Silence.

"Oh," said Antonio finally, sniffing noisily and placing a hand to his chest proudly. "Oh, Gil, look. Our little boy is growing up."

"Keep it together, man," said Gilbert gruffly. "This sucks. What are we supposed to do if you go monogamous, Francis? Your sex life is our best entertainment now we're married men."

"Married?" Antonio abruptly dropped his hand and blinked away his sappy expression. "Speak for yourself, Mrs. Edelstein."

Gilbert beamed sarcastically. "Matter of time, future Mrs. Vargas. I, for one, can not WAIT to see you in your lovely white dress!"

Antonio giggled and winked. "Just wait 'til you see the pink bridesmaid frocks I've picked for you two."

Francis leant back against the bench, feeling both calm and relieved as his two idiotic friends distracted themselves with their own sarcasm. After only one week, Francis was starting to see a future with Matthew, something he had never seen with anyone before. And it had only taken a relatively short and painless kitchen conversation with two occasionally useful idiots to see it clearly. He slammed his beer on the bench, reached instead for a nearby bottle of merlot, and poured himself a glass. Time to engineer an escape. As grateful as he was, Francis did not want to spend all evening in the kitchen - he had a gorgeous Canadian to get back to. "It is not my problem that you two have to live vicariously through my sex life because you're getting none of your own."

Gilbert raised a finger warningly. "Hey! I have no problems in that department, let me tell you - Roderich is positively gagging for me, baby."

Antonio looked appalled. "Oh my God, you _gag_ him?"

"What? No! Well, sometimes. Look, that's not the point. This is about you, Francis, and the fact that for the first time in your life you like a guy enough to take him to dinner, introduce him to your friends, and wait longer than fourteen minutes to have sex with him."

Luckily Antonio interrupted before the conversation swung back to Francis. "Why would you gag him anyway? It's not like Roderich talks that much."

"How does your brain even…" Gilbert just shook his head. "It's a thing, man. You've seen my brother's porn."

"Porn?" Antonio's eyes widened in dismayed understanding. "_Mierda Santa! _You don't… you know…" He leant across the bench and hissed. "…tie him up or anything, do you?"

Francis had to wonder at his twenty-seven year-old friend's almost painful innocence. Gilbert, however, seemed delighted. His eyes sparkled as he replied. "Only when he's very naughty."

Antonio's appalled expression turned completely horrified. "You sick bastard."

"Hey, at least I'm not fucking my cousin," Gilbert shot back.

Antonio raised his hands defencively. "Third! For the hundredth time, Lovino is my _third_ cousin! Once removed, no less!"

Gilbert always found it far too amusing to tease Antonio. "Removed? What did you have removed?"

Francis couldn't resist. "Generationally removed. It means he's a cradle snatcher as well."

"No!" cried Antonio, stamping his foot. "It means, Gil, that Lovino and I are no more related than you and any random German you'd pass on the street in Berlin!"

"Whatever, man. It's disgusting the way you Mediterraneans interbreed."

"Me? _I'm_ disgusting?"

"You're MARRYING your COUSIN!"

"At least I don't GAG him!"

"Maybe you should." Francis interrupted, casually inspecting his nails. "I don't know what Lovino is talking about with Roderich at this very moment, but I have the smallest suspicion it may have something to do with a certain lap dance in a certain American city…"

Gilbert and Antonio froze. They stared at Francis, stared at each other, turned, and bolted from the room. Francis let out a long, relieved breath. He had more important things to attend to this evening than his friend's incessant questioning - there would be plenty of time for that later. Francis tossed his hair back, took a steadying sip of the rather excellent merlot, and headed back to Matthew.

.

Matthew had already nearly finished his second beer. He wasn't really used to drinking, but then he wasn't really used to standing alone and uncomfortable at stranger's parties either. At least the beer gave him something to do with his hands, along with the bowl of pretzels on the bar before him. He'd just placed another one in his mouth, silently begging Francis to hurry back, when an unfamiliar, lightly accented voice spoke behind him.

"Hello, stranger. All alone, are we?"

Matthew spun around, mouth full and beer in hand, to find a young woman gazing at him intently. She was dressed in a dazzling green gown and her brown, wavy hair framed a pretty face with knowing eyes and a tiny smile. Matthew placed a hand to his mouth, swallowed, and stammered. "Uh, hi. No, I'm with someone, he's just…"

The young woman gestured to Matthew with a champagne glass. "You're with Francis, right?"

Matthew nodded uncertainly. "Yes. I'm…"

"Matthew." The girl winked one bright, green eye. "You're even cuter than Roderich said." She extended her hand and Matthew took it in a brief handshake. "I'm known by far too many names, but you can call me Eliza, if you like."

"Too many names?" Matthew couldn't stop his lips twisting in a wry grin. "What, are you an international criminal?"

Eliza leant closer and winked again. "Don't tell anyone." Matthew laughed, and Eliza waved a hand. "No, I'm just a designer with an apparently hard-to-remember Hungarian name and a group of friends resembling the United Nations."

"I've noticed that. I feel like the only Canadian in the room."

"You probably are, I'm afraid." Eliza took a sip of champagne then tilted her head curiously. "So tell me, Matthew. How did you meet Francis?"

"I ducked into his patisserie on Monday morning to avoid the rain, and…" Matthew shrugged, not sure how to explain the attraction that had kept him returning to Francis' patisserie all week. The fascination, the warmth, the happiness… "I just liked him immediately. He's unlike anyone I've ever met before. And, well… he's certainly not shy."

Eliza laughed, high and bright. "No. Shy he is not."

Matthew smiled back uncertainly and took a sip of beer. He still felt a little nervous, as he always did around people he didn't know, but he also felt relieved to have someone to talk with rather than stand alone. And besides, Eliza seemed nice. "How do you know Francis?"

"Roderich and I dated briefly in college. You know, before we stopped pretending."

Stopped pretending? Matthew fought not to laugh incredulously. Good Lord, were there any straight people in this town? "You mean that you're…"

Eliza smirked. "Of the Sapphic persuasion, yes. Or as Gilbert so charmingly calls me, a muff-diving bulldyke."

Matthew's eyes widened. "Oh, goodness. That's... um. So, you're friends with Gilbert, also?"

Eliza raised an eyebrow. "Is _that_ what you got from that statement?" Matthew shrugged apologetically, but Eliza just laughed. "With Roderich comes Gilbert… unfortunately. Then with Gilbert comes Antonio and your delightful Francis – who is also the cousin of my friend Charlotte, incidentally." Eliza pointed through the crowd, giving a little wave to a tall, stunning blonde in red who stood beside a teenage girl with long, blonde plaits. Both girls waved back cheerfully and immediately headed towards them.

"Friend?" asked Matthew curiously, glancing at Eliza sideways.

Eliza looked apprehensive as the girls approached. "It's complicated."

Matthew nodded in understanding. "Isn't it always?"

"Now, Matthew." Eliza spoke behind her champagne glass. "Please don't be upset by anything Charlotte says. She and her cousin are far too alike to get along very well."

Matthew worried briefly what that meant, but simply said, "All right. And the, um, little one?"

Eliza sighed softly. "Lili. Dear, sweet Lili. Again, complicated - her brother doesn't like me much. Last week he put a bullet through a fridge." Matthew was saved from having to respond to that awkward sentence as Charlotte and Lili joined them. Eliza broke into a charming grin and lowered her glass. "Charlotte, Lili – this is the famous Matthew."

Matthew was almost getting used to these strange introductions. "Pleased to meet you," he said politely. Lili waved shyly and Charlotte smirked slightly, looking Matthew over.

"Hello, Matthew. My, my. You've got to be Francis' cutest boy yet."

"Char!" Eliza spoke warningly through gritted teeth.

Charlotte ignored her and just smiled at Matthew. Her brilliant green eyes danced in the same way as Francis', and she had the same wavy blonde hair, held back by a red band. Even her French-sounding accent was similar. "Don't be offended, darling, it's a compliment. You're gorgeous. Wherever did our François pick you up from?"

Matthew smiled back smoothly, though his stomach felt uneasy. "How do you know I did not pick _him_ up?"

Charlotte raised her eyebrows, seemingly impressed by Matthew's response. "Possible, darling, but…" She looked Matthew up and down, then shrugged slightly. "Unlikely. Let me guess how it really went. You met in the patisserie, where Francis pulled the éclair and meringue test on you."

Matthew blinked in surprise, then swallowed past a worried knot in his throat. "Uh…"

"You chose the éclair," Lili giggled, before murmuring into her beer bottle. "Sorry."

Charlotte looked far too amused as she continued. "And when you _did_ try the éclair, my dear cousin informed you that he absolutely _had_ to see you again, and _insisted_ you return the next day."

Matthew felt a sick, cold ache twisting in his stomach. Did Francis really do that with everyone? He thought it had been something special. Matthew took a shaky breath and tried to hide his disappointment. "Something like that," he mumbled.

Eliza glared disapprovingly at Charlotte before smiling back at Matthew. "So you've been seeing Francis for a whole week, Matthew!"

"Almost. Is that a long time?"

"For Francis it is!" Lili immediately bit her lip and looked down. "Sorry."

"It's okay, I sort of got the impression that he…" Again Matthew felt a little sick. "Dates a bit."

Charlotte laughed airily. "Can you call it dating when the bedroom is as far as you get?"

Now Matthew felt a little annoyed. "Not having seen his bedroom, I wouldn't know."

All three women paused, stared at Matthew, and tilted their heads. Eliza leant closer. "Are you saying you haven't…" She let the sentence trail into silent expectation.

Matthew drew his beer close to his chest. Was it normal to talk about personal matters like this with people you'd just met? "Well… no."

This appeared to be a stunning revelation. Eliza and Charlotte glanced at each other, incredulously wide-eyed, and Lili actually squealed. "You see! I knew Francis really, really liked him and wasn't just using him for…" Lili abruptly broke off and gulped, looking down again and twisting her foot. "Sorry."

"Well now, this _is_ intriguing," said Charlotte, regarding Matthew thoughtfully. "What game he is playing now, I wonder."

Eliza stared at the wine glass in Charlotte's hand. "Char, dear, how many chardonnays have you had?"

Charlotte rolled her eyes. "Don't be presumptuous, _ma cherie_."

Matthew found himself astonished. It was almost uncanny how alike Charlotte was to Francis in manner and appearance. But where Matthew always seemed to know how to reply to Francis, he did not know what to do, how to act, what to say in front of Francis' beautiful, inscrutable cousin. The silent, tense moment was broken when a loud Australian voice shouted abruptly from further down the bar.

"What the bloody hell is this German crap? You call this beer? Where's the VB?"

Charlotte groaned. "Sounds like Bruce is here." She took a long sip of wine and sighed. "Well, if my brother's slacker boyfriend has arrived, then Lars can't be far behind. If you'll excuse me, I'd better make sure they hide their specialty cookies in the kitchen, away from innocent Italians. Matthew, darling..." Charlotte shot Matthew a pointed look as she walked away. "We'll talk later."

Matthew almost breathed a sigh of relief. Eliza and Lili looked somewhat apologetic, so to change the subject Matthew asked, "Is, uh, Lars a baker also?" He remembered Francis mentioning that his entire family were good cooks.

"Oh, yeah," said Lili brightly. "His cookies are amazing. They'll give you a really intense, long-lasting high, but they've still got nothing on Bruce's special mushrooms." Matthew blinked at the young girl, taken aback. But she looked so innocent! Lili just giggled. "Dinner parties at their place are unbelievable."

Eliza tugged gently on one of Lili's plaits. "Don't scare the boy, sweetie. And Matthew, please don't be bothered by Charlotte. She's… well, actually, she's probably just jealous."

Now _that_ was confusing. "Jealous of who?"

Matthew's question was interrupted when Antonio came dashing suddenly out of the kitchen, bolting across the room and shouting incoherently in a garbled mixture of Spanish and Italian. He was quickly followed by Gilbert, party hat tilted dangerously on his head and a beer bottle clutched in his hand, shrieking, "Don't believe him, Roddy baby, it's all lies!"

Matthew watched them pass, faintly amused, and wondering why none of the guests seemed the slightest bit surprised to see the two men charging wildly through the room. "What the…"

Eliza finished her champagne and spoke matter-of-factly. "Gil and Toni got wasted on schnapps and sangria at some cowboy bar in New York last month. Toni gave Gil a lap dance. They don't realise that Roderich and Lovino already know - the video's been on YouTube for weeks."

"And it has more views than that hacked webcam video of Feli finding Ludwig's porn folder." Matthew spun around at the familiar French accent, Francis' voice a beautiful sound of reprieve and relief.

Eliza and Lili both snorted with laughter. "Can you _believe_ Gil stopped the video right when Ludwig walked through the door," giggled Eliza.

Francis gave a dramatic sigh of disappointment. "It seems that, when it comes to his little brother, the man has _some_ morals…"

"…unfortunately," Eliza and Lili finished.

Matthew felt a warm arm slide around his waist and leant back into Francis. "Oh, thank God," he whispered. Immediately all concerns and worries flew from his mind, too grateful and relieved by Francis' familiar presence. Francis smiled, brilliant and charming and breathtaking.

"Mathieu, I see you have met Miss Érz and the lovely Lili. My delightful Belgian cousin is not around, is she?"

Eliza smirked. "You just missed her, I'm afraid."

Francis looked relieved. "Oh, what a shame." He winked at Matthew and took his arm. "Quickly, we must make our escape before she returns. Let us find a seat, darling."

.

Gilbert fell heavily onto the couch between Eliza and Lili, full beer in hand and red party hat still sitting on his head. He took Eliza's hand and kissed it with a grin. "Érzebet, _mein Schatz._ Jealous of the gorgeous birthday boy?"

"Oh yes, Gil." Eliza smiled sarcastically. "I can only hope to have so few wrinkles at your age. Not that I have to worry about that for a very, _very_ long time yet."

"Not quite as long as our little flower here." Gilbert patted Lili's head and spoke in a childish voice. "Are you legally allowed to drink yet, _Fräulein?"_

Lili froze, her beer halfway to her lips. "Um…"

"Don't worry, I won't tell Brother Dearest. How is the psychotic freak anyway? That bastard owes me a new fridge."

"He wouldn't have actually shot you, Gil, honest," said Lili earnestly.

"Only because he was aiming for me," muttered Eliza.

Matthew hardly spared a thought for the strange conversation. He was slowly becoming used to it. The music still blared into the huge room, packed with a massing crowd, talking and shouting and dancing amid brightly coloured floating balloons that seemed to have come from nowhere. Matthew and Francis shared a single large armchair, one of a low circle of seats and couches centred around a table covered in beer bottles and empty glasses. Matthew was pressed so close to Francis he was almost in the man's lap. Others surrounded them, spread across the seats and the floor, but Matthew could barely pay attention to any of them. He was too aware of Francis' captivating warmth beside him, too distracted by Francis' firm hand tracing dangerously arousing circles on his hip. It felt like there was no one else in the room, like no one else existed, like Matthew and Francis were the only two people in the world… Well, except for Francis' friends and extended family of course, who just kept on coming.

There was Francis' Dutch cousin Lars and his Australian boyfriend Bruce, both of whom seemed far too wasted for so early in the evening. There was Francis' Greek cousin Herakles and his shy little Japanese boyfriend Kiku, who immediately disappeared into the adjoining lounge room to play video games; they were soon joined by Feliciano and his huge, serious boyfriend Ludwig, after an awkward introduction during which Francis whispered, _"Le cochon de sexe"_ and Matthew could not stop snickering.

"Your friends all get along really well," said Matthew, watching with equal amusement and confusion as Gilbert and Antonio attempted to make a tower out of empty beer bottles and pretzels. "They're nice."

Francis laughed as Lovino blew on the makeshift tower, sending it crashing to the table. "Sometimes."

Matthew looked down, suddenly nervous. "I'm starting to wonder if I can fit in all this."

"Darling, you fit with me," said Francis, gently squeezing Matthew's side. "You fit perfectly. I've never met anyone who fits so perfectly." Matthew looked up into Francis' eyes, and it was so easy to believe that he meant it. This felt so comfortable like this, Francis' arm around his waist and Matthew's leg draped over his. It did not seem to matter if they were alone in the quiet patisserie or surrounded by a shouting crowd as a riotous party carried on around them - this always felt the same. Calm, and exciting, and right.

"What are you doing tomorrow?" asked Matthew, part of him already dreading the inevitable moment this night would end and he would have to go home to his apartment alone.

Francis' eyes sparkled brightly. "I am spending my day off with you!"

Matthew smiled, happiness filling his chest. "What will we do?"

"We'll do breakfast, darling, and then…" Francis' expression grew dangerously playful. "Let us go ice skating."

Matthew almost choked on his beer. "Are you serious?"

"But of course!" said Francis gleefully. "I want to see you do what you love, _mon cher._ I want to see your eyes light up with the joy of it."

Matthew laughed nervously. Skating actually sounded wonderful – but he would likely make a fool of himself. "It's been so long."

Francis tilted his head closer to Matthew, caressing him with his eyes. "You will remember."

Matthew's breath caught in his throat, the base of his spine tingling. "And after skating?"

"Dinner." The twist of Francis' lips was purely lustful. "At my place."

Matthew's eyes widened. He could not help but think of those full, smirking, lustful lips against him. "Oh." His heart threatened to pound through his chest. "And, uh... after that?"

"Why, dessert of course…" Francis pressed even closer to Matthew in the tight space of the chair, the pressure of his thigh burning through Matthew's clothes and into his skin. "… in bed."

Matthew let out a shaky breath. He understood. "That sounds... perfect."

Francis' hair tickled Matthew's cheek, those dancing blue eyes burning into his own. Just before their lips met the pounding music abruptly quieted, the lights dimmed, and an enormous cheer erupted throughout the room. Matthew looked up dazedly to see Roderich rolling a bright silver trolley through the crowd, illuminated by a cluster of flickering candles atop the most enormous cake Matthew had ever seen. The entire room rose to their feet, though Matthew and Francis both had to wait a few moments before they could stand.

Roderich stopped a few feet from their couch circle. The cake was unlike anything Matthew had ever seen. Five tiers high, it was a stunning black and white masterpiece with colourful, edible decorations including ponies, hammers, beer bottles, and a large iron cross. Gilbert's 'party cake,' the sachertorte from the day before, formed only the central tier of Francis' entire creation. It was more a work of art than a piece of food. Matthew shook his head in amazement, intensely impressed by just how incredibly talented Francis actually was. He was also surprised at the little wave of pride he felt of standing by Francis' side, of having Francis' arm around his waist. Roderich gestured towards him in acknowledgment and Francis put a hand to his chest, bowing slightly to the loud applause and gasps of admiration. Matthew spoke softly in his ear. "It's amazing, Francis."

Francis smiled, then kissed him as the entire room watched. Matthew could not keep the silly grin from his face.

Gilbert climbed gleefully onto the coffee table, knocking over the remnants of the beer tower, to shout his speech to the room. "My friends. I am not, as you know, the type of man to praise himself excessively." The statement was met by incredulous laughter and dubious jeers. Gilbert waved his beer in the air. "Shut up. And I know you all expect a short, elegant speech on the occasion of my twenty-eighth birthday."

More sceptical laughter and loud scoffs, along with a boisterous shout of "Show us your pink bits!"

"Shut up, Bruce. AS I was saying, I know you are all expecting a short speech. So here it is: eat cake, drink beer, and if you really want to trip balls I suggest the cookies in the kitchen. Good night!"

The crowd seemed more incredulous than anything. Gilbert jumped off the table amidst laughter and applause, grabbed Roderich by the waist and kissed him enthusiastically, then made his way through the clustering guests to cut the cake. Roderich managed to escape from the pressing crowd, brushing himself off as he rejoined Matthew and Francis' small group. "I must say I'm surprised," he said, his face flushed as he accepted a glass of wine from Lovino. "I was expecting Gilbert to give a fifty minute annotated monologue like last year."

Antonio giggled and nudged Roderich in the shoulder. "Hey, Roddy, hey. I thought he'd go on so long we'd have to tie him down and gag him."

Roderich turned white.

.

The night was growing late, the beer continued to flow steadily, and Matthew was fairly sure he was slightly drunk. He was also fairly sure this did not matter much, since it simply gave him an excuse to press closer to Francis; to laugh at his every word; to feel, for the first time in his entire life, like he was the centre of someone's world. For all the madness, the deafening music and the insane conversations, Francis had been fixated on Matthew the entire evening. Somehow it was different than the patisserie: here, a hundred people surrounded them, yet Francis still chose to give his entire attention to Matthew. Now, however, an unexpected argument drew both their concentration.

"You _would_ say that, you dense, deluded German!"

"Hey, don't get all snotty when someone points out the truth, little Lovi."

"Don't call me that, _bastardo! _And it's not the truth, it's your stupid and inherently flawed opinion!"

"My opinion _is _the truth!"

"You see, that's the only reason you think Rainbow Dash is the best, because you're both so stupidly _arrogant!_"

"And the only reason you think Twilight is the best is because you're both poncy, antisocial little shits!"

"Don't. You. DARE speak about the divine Miss Sparkle like that!"

Matthew clutched his beer, tilted his head, and felt his forehead furrow in puzzlement. "Let me get this straight," he said softly, leaning closer to Francis on the couch beside him. "They're arguing about... ponies?"

Francis nodded as he took a sip of wine. "This is nothing, darling. Last week Lovino put a golf club through Gilbert's windshield because he said he preferred FlutterJack to FlutterMac."

Matthew didn't think he could decipher that sentence. Instead, he just asked, "Golf club?"

Francis nodded again. "Antonio plays on Tuesdays."

"Ah."

Gilbert and Lovino stood facing off between the circle of couches. Antonio watched avidly, Roderich looked used to it, and Eliza and Lili barely seemed to notice, too caught up in their own whispered conversation. Gilbert's fists clenched and Lovino's eyes narrowed. Matthew started to feel uneasy.

"There's only one way to resolve this," growled Gilbert.

Lovino's lip twisted. "I agree."

Gilbert raised his chin, Lovino squared his shoulders, and then – to Matthew's complete and utter confusion – the two men hugged each other warmly.

"I tolerate and respect your right to a difference of opinion, Gilbert."

"Lovino, let us never forget the power of friendship."

Antonio suddenly bounced over, poked his head between the two, and grinned manically. "I like Pinkie Pie!"

Lovino snarled at him. "Fuck off, poser."

Gilbert shook his head, looking disgusted. "Honestly, Antonio, you embarrass yourself sometimes."

Lovino and Gilbert walked away, muttering to each other, leaving Antonio standing alone with his hands spread wide. "What?"

"Um," said Matthew, utterly bewildered. "Okay. I thought _'My Little Pony'_ was a show for little girls…"

Francis shot Matthew a strong, warning glance. "Do not ever say that to either of them, darling. _Never._ I speak from experience."

Gilbert and Lovino did not get far from the group before Ludwig charged through the room, grabbed Gilbert by the collar, and hissed angrily. "Who brought those cookies?"

Gilbert's alarmed expression turned faintly expectant, his eyes lighting up. "Bruce and Lars."

Ludwig's eyes went wide. "Bruce the Australian stoner and Lars the Dutch purveyor of various illicit substances?"

"Actually," said Francis, winking at Matthew as he spoke. "Lars prefers the title 'Specialty Baker.'"

"I don't care what he prefers!" shouted Ludwig, his face turning red. "Feliciano ate three of those things!"

The entire group paused before bursting into riotous laughter. Matthew could only wonder if this was really a laughing matter – not least because Ludwig looked quite terrifying when he was angry.

"What's he doing?" asked Lovino, clutching his stomach.

Ludwig looked furious. "Currently, watching Kiku and Herakles play Mario Kart like it holds the meaning of the universe."

"Holy crap I've gotta see!" Lovino immediately raced off, followed by Gilbert and Antonio, who roughly grabbed Francis from the couch and dragged him with them. Ludwig and Roderich followed concernedly behind and, before he knew it, Matthew was on his own.

Matthew sat still for a few moments, attempting to comprehend what had just happened. He stared at the beer in his hand, shrugged and finished it, then stood and headed after the group. He was unexpectedly interrupted by a voice behind him.

"_Bonsoir,_ darling. Having fun?"

Matthew spun around and felt his stomach sink. He tried to smile. "Charlotte. Hi. Sure, I um…" He looked around quickly. "Seem to have lost Francis, though…"

"Could I have a minute, darling?" Charlotte did not give Matthew a chance to answer: she simply took his arm and led him away from the crushing mass to stand against the wall. There was an almost-empty wine glass in her hand. "Matthew, I'm glad I got to speak to you alone."

"Okay…" Their earlier forgotten conversation flooded unpleasantly into Matthew's memory.

Charlotte looked down at her glass, her green eyes strangely sad. "I might not particularly like Francis - but I understand him. Probably because I'm far more similar to him than I would like to admit."

Matthew wanted to ask why Charlotte was telling him this; wanted to tell her he wasn't interested; wanted to ignore her and walk away. He could not deny, however, that he also wanted to know what she had to say. He stared silently, and waited.

Charlotte sighed deeply before she continued. "Francis likes sex. And he plays games. He won't settle on one person, because he can't. He might want to – he might think he can – but in the end, he'll…" Charlotte's gaze flicked over to where Eliza and Lili sat laughing on the nearby couch. "He'll mess up," Charlotte finished softly. Matthew wondered briefly just who Charlotte was speaking about.

"You heard earlier, I've…" Matthew started to feel dizzy and tried to shake the feeling away. "I've been seeing Francis for a week…"

Charlotte shrugged, her eyes unchanging. "An hour, a day, a week. Once Francis sleeps with a guy, that's it. It's over. That's all he cares about – it's all he wants. He'll go through any elaborate scheme to get someone into bed, and once he has, he loses all interest." Charlotte's words made Matthew feel sick and yet, oddly, she sounded like she was trying to convince herself.

"I appreciate your concern. But I…" _But I what?_ Matthew should have some stinging response to this girl, surely. But the room was starting to spin, and Matthew could not concentrate on finishing his sentence.

Charlotte placed a gentle hand on Matthew's shoulder, the warm scent of her perfume mingling with the smell of alcohol. "Matthew, look. You're sweet, but you're naïve. I might sound like I'm being a bitch, but honestly, I just really don't want to see a nice guy like you get hurt. And if you stay with Francis, you will be."

And then she was gone. Matthew stood unmoving for a few minutes, anxiety rising in his chest as the room spun around him and unfamiliar people pushed past. The metal music was deafening, blasting through his ears and his skin. Matthew headed back into the crowd - past people drinking and laughing, dancing wildly, jumping on the bar - and as he looked down at the empty beer bottle in his hand he tried to remember just how much he had drunk. How strong was this German beer anyway?

Matthew was lost. Lost in a sea of people who did not see him, who were funnier and more interesting and better dressed than him. No one in the entire cold, vast, spinning room seemed to notice him, and once again he felt looked over and ignored. But of course he was ignored; of course Francis abandoned him the moment he could. Charlotte's last words spun through his head, then everything he had heard so far, all those worrying statements from Francis' friends... _"So, Matt, tell me. How long did it take mon ami Francis? To get from one of these in your mouth to…"_… _"Well, I say boyfriends, but everyone knows Francis only uses them for s…"… "Don't forget that I've got far more dirt on you than you'll ever have on me, amigo..."_

Matthew tried to think straight, hurrying past a group of men clustered at the bar. He could not help overhearing their conversation.

"Have you seen the boy Francis brought with him tonight?"

Obnoxious laughter. "Fifty bucks he's an escort."

"Nah, man, Francis doesn't have to pay. My bet is he picked the guy up at the gas station on the way here."

Matthew fought a sudden urge to be sick. Was that really all Francis wanted from him? Just sex? Was this all a game Matthew had not even realised he'd been playing? But suddenly it all made sense. Matthew was dull and boring. He had an uninteresting job, an unexciting life: there was nothing remarkable about him whatsoever. What could Francis possibly see in Matthew when he could have anyone?

Everything kept turning, pounding into his head, and Matthew could barely make sense of his feet on the ground. He needed to find Francis. Needed to ask, needed to understand, needed to know. Matthew tried to walk in the general direction he saw Francis head earlier, stumbling into a hallway before hearing familiar voices from a nearby room.

"Honestly, _mes amis_, this is quite enough. We had this conversation earlier."

"Which you interrupted by your flagrantly vicious insinuations. Little Lovi and Roddy baby weren't even discussing the L-A-P D-A-N-C-E, they were talking about flower arrangements. Ludwig, _Bruder_, control your boyfriend, man!"

"Don't CALL ME LITTLE LOVI!"

"Gilbert, I've never had a conversation about flower arranging in my life. And I can spell, _Dummkopf_."

"Feliciano, _Mein Gott, _get down from the bookshelf! Come watch Kiku play Mario Kart! _Verdammt, _what was _in _those cookies…"

"Ve, Ludwig! But I need to find a banana to slow down the turtles! The mushrooms keep chasing me! Why won't the cows move?"

"Hey, Ludwig, hey Roddy, hey, maybe we could _tie him down _and _gag_…"

"NOT FUNNY ANYMORE, ANTONIO!"

"_Ça suffit! _If you are all quite finished…"

"No, man, you haven't even addressed the issue. I can't believe you uploaded that video from New York! I thought you'd taken down all that freaky stuff…"

"_Si, amigo,_ like that classic vid of you with the pool boy, the pizza boy and the handyman…"

"Haha, and that awesomely visionary masterpiece of your orgy with fifteen sailors."

"After all, you don't want Matthew to know you're just a dirty old man who's only interested in one thing…"

"And who'll dump him once you've got into his pants…"

"Probably with the video evidence to prove it! Oh… _mierda."_

The sudden silence was deafening. Once Matthew reached the door, the entire room looked over and froze. Roderich put his hand to his mouth, Antonio closed his eyes, and Gilbert turned and kicked the wall. _"Scheisse!"_

Matthew did not know how to react. He was stunned, confused, disgusted – yet all he could manage to say was, "Fifteen?"

Francis seemed struck still. His face was white, his eyes wide and filled with fear. It took a few harrowing, silent moments for him to respond. "Um… that was a _really_ long time ago."

Matthew dropped his gaze and shrunk back. Charlotte was right. They were all right. He felt suddenly small, ridiculed, like this group of Francis' friends and family were mocking him, laughing at him. He felt like he was on the outside of some joke that everyone had known all along but him. Matthew wanted to hide, wanted to vanish, wanted to disappear. He did the next best thing. He turned and ran.

.

The cool outside air was like a slap in the face after the hot, crushing, deafening madness inside. Matthew fought back tears as he stumbled down the driveway, desperate to get as far away from this horrifying, humiliating situation as possible. How could he have been so stupid? How could he really think that someone as popular and handsome and charming as Francis would actually be interested in him? How had he let himself believe it?

"Matthew, wait!" Matthew stopped, gritted his teeth, and forced himself to turn. Francis' face was a mask of concern, dark and shadowed in the dim outside light. "Please listen…"

"I'm leaving, Francis." Matthew tried to speak calmly, even as he felt like his heart was breaking in his chest. "Excuse me."

"Wait!" Francis' took a step closer and spoke anxiously. "Look, they say these things, they always do. It's how we talk, it is just a joke…"

Matthew laughed disbelievingly and stepped away. The bright lights from the house threw shadows onto the wide, green lawn. "And what about the dates everyone keeps mentioning? The éclair everyone knows about? You're right, Francis. It is a joke. This whole thing is a joke, one I was stupid enough to fall for!"

Francis shook his head frantically. "No…"

"What is this, then?" Matthew almost shouted, suddenly furious. Francis looked stunned by the sudden outburst, and did not respond. "Well?" Matthew continued angrily. "Why did you bring me here? All you've done is make a fool of me!"

"Matthew…"

Matthew refused to let Francis speak. "You know, it's not that you fuck a lot of guys, because apparently…" Matthew threw up his hands and let out a burst of angry laughter. "…that's what people do. And it's not that you've apparently slept with half the population of Canada, because as distasteful as I might find it, that's your own business. It's that for once… for once in my _entire_ life…" Matthew's voice cracked slightly and he forced back his tears. "I thought someone saw me as something special. _Me._ And now I find out, this is just your usual game. You do this with _everyone!_"

Francis' expression contorted painfully. "Matthew. That is not true…"

Matthew scoffed and looked away. "Your own friends said it, Francis. Your own cousin!"

Francis breathed out in understanding. "Charlotte."

"Not just Charlotte. Gilbert, Feliciano, Antonio… they've all been saying it since I met you, and I've just been too blind to see the obvious." Matthew laughed at himself, disgusted by his own stupidity. "I didn't want to see the obvious."

Francis took another step forward, until he was so close that Matthew could reach out and touch him. A cold gust of wind whipped his blond hair around his face; the light of the moon shone in his sad blue eyes. Matthew felt such a strong ache of longing in his chest that he nearly fell forward. He wanted to be wrong; he so wanted this to be real. He wanted Francis, so much it took his breath away. Francis took a deep breath and asked, as though he was afraid of the answer. "The obvious? What obvious, darling?"

The familiar endearment sent an aching shudder across Matthew's skin. But he could not ignore what he had heard from Francis' friends. All Matthew's false bravado, his clever replies, his affected confidence melted away, leaving him simply lost and insecure. Matthew drew his arms close against the wind, and whispered his reply. "That you couldn't really fall in love with me."

Francis looked strangely distraught and astonished. His jaw hardened, his eyes softened, and he breathed out a quiet sigh. "Oh, Matthew. That is _so_ untrue."

Matthew only paused for a moment. No, this was just part of Francis' game. Part of this lie, this amusement, this stupid joke. "I'm sorry for thinking of this as more than it was. Thank you for making me feel important – even if it was only for a little while. And even if I was mistaken."

When he finally spoke, Francis' voice sounded desperate. "Matthew, please, just listen to me…"

But Matthew was done listening. He was done feeling foolish; done feeling small and ridiculed. Done feeling important and beautiful, done feeling adored and special. Matthew turned away from Francis and headed into the night. It was time to forget this wonderful week ever happened. Time to go back to his dull, grey existence; back to his dull, grey life.


	5. Ben, Jerry and Alfred

**CHAPTER FIVE**  
><strong>Ben, Jerry and Alfred<strong>

.

By mid Sunday afternoon, Matthew still hadn't managed to drag himself from the couch where he had fallen the night before. After almost a month in this city, the small grey apartment living room he lay in still wasn't completely furnished. A low, uncovered coffee table stood between the only couch and the television, while only a small bar fridge sat in the adjoining kitchen. Most of Matthew's belongings were currently in suitcases or in storage, which would make things easier, he supposed, when he moved town. Which, after the events of the previous evening, should be any day now.

Matthew lay against the nest of cushions and pillows he'd made for himself, steadily making his way through an entire bottle of maple syrup as he watched ancient re-runs of Degrassi High on the soap channel. The silly Canadian melodrama was only making him feel worse, but he could not summon the energy to change the channel. Matthew couldn't summon the energy to do anything but lie, unmoving, trying unsuccessfully to forget and regret the entire last week of his life. But he couldn't. All he could think of was Francis.

Matthew swallowed another gulp of maple syrup, ignoring the slightly queasy feeling growing in his stomach. Okay, so he'd met a nice guy, had a good time, and it hadn't worked out. So? That sort of thing happened all the time when people dated. Probably. Matthew wouldn't really know. Regardless, it wasn't a big deal. Francis just wanted something different from what Matthew was looking for. Francis wanted a short-term fling. Matthew wanted a relationship. And he was being all silly and upset because he had mistakenly believed Francis wanted the same. But really, this was _good_ thing, Matthew tried insistently to tell himself. It was a relief to know, now, before anyone got really hurt. Besides, Francis wasn't even the type of man Matthew would normally look twice at. Too showy, too brash, too _much._ But he was also funny, and sexy, and strangely charming - and Matthew had fallen for him headfirst after only a few days.

Matthew shook that last thought from his head. No, he was not going to continue being distraught over this. He was not going to mope and cry and mourn over a man he barely knew, however special that man made him feel; however bright he made the days; however brilliant his eyes or perfect his smile or captivating his laugh or… Matthew gritted his teeth, squeezed the maple syrup bottle, and abruptly hurled it at the TV. "Oh, Caitlin, when will you learn?" he shouted at the ridiculous soap opera on screen. "Joey's only going to keep hurting you!"

A knock sounded suddenly at the door, loud and long and frantic. "Go away," Matthew muttered, hugging a cushion to his chest. The obnoxious pounding refused to stop, however, so Matthew reluctantly got to his feet and dragged himself across the room. He groaned the second he threw open the door.

"Matt, thank goodness!" Alfred spoke breathlessly, a huge overnight bag slung over his shoulder and overflowing plastic bags in his hands. He looked like he had run all the way from America. Knowing Alfred, he probably had. "I came as soon as I could!"

Matthew blinked in surprise. Of all the things he did not expect on his doorstep today… "Why?"

"Why?" Alfred looked incredulous. "Because you rang me at 3am to tell me you were moving to Antarctica. Please don't move to Antarctica, Matt! That's, like, near Poland or something. What are we supposed to do at Christmas?"

Despite himself, Matthew felt his lips twitch in a tiny smile. Trust his kind, foolish, misguided brother to turn up on his doorstep, in a different country, after a simple late night drunken phone call. "I'm not moving to Antarctica, Al. People say things they don't mean when they're upset."

Alfred breathed a sigh of relief, pushed past Matthew, and headed straight to the kitchen. "Good. Although I hear the weather's nice, and living with the kangaroos would be kind of cool. Now I know you're upset, so I brought you ice-cream."

Matthew followed slowly, his heart sinking just a little. Just what he did not need when trying to forget Francis – to be reminded of the one other man who had broken his heart. "You thought, after being dumped, that_ ice-cream _would make me feel better."

"Ice-cream makes everyone feel bet…" Alfred's eyes widened guiltily. "Oh shit, ice-cream was your thing with that Cuban guy, wasn't it? Okay, forget the ice-cream. I also have…" Alfred dropped the dangerously full bags onto the kitchen bench and rifled through them. "Snickers and skittles and twizzlers and ooh, gummi bears, and coke and creaming soda and…"

"Alfred."

"Yeah?"

"Give me the damn ice-cream."

Matthew again sat nestled into his layer of pillows, staring unseeing at the TV, already on his second tub of Ben and Jerry's Cookie Dough ice-cream smothered in maple syrup and washed down with copious quantities of coca-cola. Alfred sat beside him on the couch, resting his feet on the candy-littered coffee table, onto his own second tub of Ben and Jerry's AmeriCone Dream. Alfred had quickly hijacked the remote control and had so far scrolled through the cooking channel, a black and white French film, and an old episode of _'McHale's Navy,' _all of which reminded Matthew of Francis in one way or another. Alfred was now glued to _'Ice Road Truckers,'_ which seemed fairly safe. However, despite his best efforts to the contrary, Matthew kept bringing the conversation back to Francis.

"Fifteen, Al. FIFTEEN!"

Alfred whistled. "Must've been sore in the morning."

"But how is it possible?" Matthew gestured with his spoon and ice-cream container, trying to make sense of the logistics. "How do they… where do they… how does everyone even fit? Even if they divide into pairs there's one left over."

"He's probably the one holding the camera."

"Sailors, even." Matthew knew he shouldn't be thinking about this, but he simply couldn't stop himself. Images kept drifting through his head of Francis in various naked acrobatic positions with a veritable legion of faceless men. Most of them wearing little blue and white caps. "Sailors, Al! Have you ever slept with a sailor?"

Alfred paused, thinking, his spoon in mid-air. "No. I almost slept with a coastguard once. Does that count?"

Matthew shrugged dismissively. "Sure, why not."

Alfred dove back into his tub of Ben and Jerry's. "What about you?"

"I've slept with two men, Alfred. Ever." Matthew waved two fingers in Alfred's face. "Two. Meanwhile, Francis has apparently slept with the entire Royal Canadian Navy."

Alfred nodded sagely. "I bet it was the submarine fleet."

Matthew shook his head, the images starting to overwhelm him. "I can't talk about this anymore. I can't. I'm going insane." He dug out a huge spoonful of ice cream, devoured the lot, then immediately asked, "Do you know what he asked me when we first met?"

"To look over his stock portfolio," Alfred answered immediately.

Matthew narrowed his eyes. "Why does everyone assume I'm an investment banker?"

Alfred looked apologetic. "It's the suit, dude."

"He asked if he could give me a _hand._ Just like that." Matthew attempted to imitate Francis' heavy accent. "'Can I give you a _hand_ by any chance?'" But even as he spoke derisively, Matthew could picture Francis standing there in his bright, warm patisserie, smiling gently and gesturing gracefully and looking at Matthew like he was the only person in the entire world…

Alfred whistled again. "Well, he's got balls."

Matthew tried to laugh, tried to mock the flashy Frenchman. "He was always like that. Always _'mon cher'_ and _'my dear' _and _'darling…'"_ _Always kind and sensuous and charming… _Matthew stabbed his ice cream angrily with his spoon and grumbled. "I mean, how pathetically contrived can you get?"

"Dude. He sounds like a total queen."

"Yes. Well, no. He's just… stupidly charming."

"Bastard. Want me to kick his ass?"

"Yes. Wait, no! Damn it, I'm not talking about this. I'm not thinking about him. I'm changing the subject." Matthew took a swig of coke, passed the bottle to Alfred, then tapped his spoon against his chin. Why was he completely unable to think of anything else? "Okay, _you_ change the subject."

Alfred shrugged. "How's work?"

Matthew groaned. What a terrible change of subject. "Awful. Boring." The only thing that made it bearable was the anticipation of seeing Francis again… Matthew shook the thought from his head and tried to pay attention to _'Ice Road Truckers.'_ "I think I should quit being an accountant."

Alfred looked at him, startled. "Really?"

"Yeah." Matthew immediately began considering his options for changing jobs, moving town, and forgetting the last week in this city had ever happened. He gestured to the screen with his spoon. "I could do this, you know. I could move to Alaska and be a trucker." The solitude, the cold, the ever-present chance of falling through a hole in the ice. It sounded rather appealing. "In fact, I think I might."

"That'd be cool," said Alfred, impressed. "You could be on the show and everything. Or you could move to Louisiana and catch gators. Or be a bounty hunter. Ooh, Matt, be a bounty hunter!"

"Hmm. There's a thought." Matthew gave Alfred a tiny smile. "You could join me."

Alfred gasped loudly. "I totally could! Matt, we'd be so awesome, busting crims and wearing leather and drinking in taverns and we'd be…" Alfred's face froze in some sort of silent comprehension, his wide eyes lighting up. "We'd be like Boba Fett!"

Matthew laughed, easily remembering just what he missed about Alfred. His brother could always make him smile – even when he frustrated the hell out of him. "We could start an agency. The 'Williams-Jones Fugitive Recovery Service.'"

"Dude, that'd be so cool, except…" Alfred's face fell. "Except the NFL's got me under contract for another two years at least."

Matthew smiled softly. "Oh well. Maybe one day." Both brothers went back to their tubs of Ben and Jerry's, dreams of bounty hunting quickly forgotten. "How is work going, anyway? I heard you won some little game last week."

"Yeah," said Alfred, through a mouthful of ice cream. "The Super Bowl."

"Is that what that was?"

Alfred nodded. "Yep."

"Huh. That's sort of a big deal, isn't it?"

"Little bit, yeah."

Matthew raised his spoon. "Well done you."

Alfred touched his spoon to Matthew's in a toast. "Cheers."

Matthew suddenly felt a little guilty. He had gone over the last week three times and the previous night's party twice, yet had neglected asking anything about Alfred's life. He started by asking about Alfred's boyfriend of less than a year. Matthew had only met the Englishman a few times, but he liked the man, and they got along well. "How's Arthur?"

"Oh, you know. Same as always. Cranky, cute. Annoyingly British." Alfred smiled dopily. "Perfect."

Matthew glared through narrowed eyes. "Some solidarity, please?"

Alfred had the good manners to look a little guilty. "Oh, right. Well, um… last week he tried to cook dinner, and made me clean up."

Matthew shook his head dramatically. "Men."

Alfred snorted. "Bastards."

And then, again, Matthew's brain was flooded with thoughts of Francis. Memories, and emotions, and that dull, sick ache of desperate grief. He stared blankly at the wall as it all fell on his shoulders, fell like a cold stone in his chest. "Really, I should have seen through him. I should have known what Francis was doing. It shouldn't have taken a week. It shouldn't have taken his cousins and his friends to hammer the truth into my thick head." Matthew remembered the humiliation of standing in that doorway as Francis' friends and family laughed, the horrifying realisation that he was just another of Francis' conquests. He swallowed heavily, his cheeks burning with the memory. "It felt like they were all laughing at me. Or feeling sorry for me. I don't know what's worse."

Alfred sighed quietly, sadly. "Oh, Matt."

Matthew laughed bitterly. He laughed to keep from crying. "I should have seen it before I got dumped."

Alfred spoke softly. "From what you've said, it sounds like you dumped him."

Well, _that_ made Matthew stop and consider. "I suppose I did, really, didn't I." He tried, unsuccessfully, to gain some satisfaction from the fact. "Huh."

"Well done you," said Alfred, raising his spoon and grinning. Matthew stared at him, then breathed out heavily as he tapped Alfred's spoon with his own.

"Cheers, I suppose." Matthew sighed again, threw his spoon into his almost empty ice cream tub, and ran a hand wearily through his messy hair. He felt so lost and empty with these thoughts of Francis running through his head. "I really thought he liked me."

Alfred spoke decisively. "Of course he liked you."

Matthew scoffed. "If anything, he just liked my ass."

"Well, you do have a nice ass."

Matthew laughed, then tried again to glare. "Stop it. It's not funny."

Alfred just shrugged, smiling. "You know, maybe - and I'm just putting this out there, so don't get all pissed off - but maybe he really did like you, Matt. Maybe you were different to all those other guys he dated. You are pretty damn special, you know. Maybe he saw that."

Matthew felt a brief warmth in his chest, then nodded. "Thanks, Al. But I heard all I need to hear. Francis doesn't have relationships - he has sex. And there's nothing wrong with that. It's my fault for thinking it was something it wasn't."

Alfred shook his head. "I've told you this a hundred times, but you're too damn nice, man."

Matthew ignored that. "But you know the worst thing? The absolute worst thing about this whole stupid situation?" Alfred looked at him silently, and Matthew had to swallow heavily before he could continue. "It's too late. I'm already completely in love with him."

Matthew suddenly felt sick. Because it was true. He _was_ in love with Francis: he was in love, and it was over. He was in love, and he would never see Francis again. Never smile teasingly at him through lowered lashes; never brush his hand against Francis' arm across a colourful patisserie counter. Never again hear that smooth, lilting voice call him _'darling,' _never feel those warm, soft, insistent lips on his. Matthew dropped the ice cream onto the ground, leant his elbows on his knees, and put his head in his hands. It was over. 'It' had never even really happened. This whole week had been a game to Francis, one of thousands he'd played before – just a way to get Matthew into bed. But to Matthew, it had been the best week of his life.

Matthew felt Alfred's hand rest lightly on his shoulder, and silently thanked his usually oblivious brother for knowing exactly when his words weren't wanted. Matthew just squeezed his eyes shut, took a deep breath, then slowly lay down on the couch. "I'm going to sleep now," he managed to choke out through a tight throat. "I want to sleep forever."

"Okay, Matt." Alfred gently patted his shoulder. "I'll be right here, okay?"

Matthew nodded into a cushion. "Thanks, Al."

After an entire miserable, sleepless night and a whole wretched day of bad food, worse television, and encompassing despair, Matthew fell asleep almost instantly. He did not hear Alfred turn off the TV, did not feel the blanket placed over him. And he did not notice the text messages his brother sent and received on the couch beside him.

_How is your brother?_

**passed out from ice and coke overdose**

_?!_

**ice-cream, coca-cola**

_Oh. Poor bloke._

**i know, hes gonna put on like ten pounds**

_Like you can talk._

**you love it**

_Oh yes, Alfred, I love the way you're developing the incredible skill and highly enviable ability of balancing a beer can on your stomach._

**yeah keep texting baby your getting me hot**

_I sincerely hope you are being as sarcastic as I was. I'll ask again. How is Matthew? Will he be all right?_

**dont know, hes real sad, i think he actually loved this francis guy**

_Francis? The man he was seeing?_

**yeah, french bastard, francis bonnefoy, baker or some shit**

**arthur?**

**arthur are you there?**

**helloooooo?**

**arthur if you dont text back im gonna call you**

_asdfgshjsfjkah_

…**huh? arthur are you alright?**

_Alfred, be a dear and go book me a hotel room._

**what? why?**

_Because I am not going to crash on your brother's couch like some sort of unwashed Australian backpacker. I'll be up in the morning - I'll ring you when I arrive._

**your so random arthur. hey what are you wearing?**

**arthur?**

.

Constant, heavy, wind-swept rain pelted relentlessly at the front window, turning the usually warm and bright room dark and cold. The entire dull, grey afternoon seemed to seep into the patisserie, the unfamiliar atmosphere mirroring Francis' own state of misery. He leant against the front counter, chin in his hand, staring blankly at the far wall. This was the first rain in a week. The first rain since that startling, unexpected, glorious Monday morning when a shy, gorgeous accountant had sheltered in his store from the weather. The rain that day was beautiful: it had brought Matthew into Francis' life. The rain today was bitter, and lonely, and brought him nothing but despair.

Francis was still amazed at how much could change in seven days – it was hard to believe it had only been a week. One week in which Francis had changed more than he ever thought possible. One week in which he had gained hope and love and happiness and lost it all. Matthew was light and air and joy; without him, the colour had gone from the world. Now everything just seemed, well, dull. Dull and grey. Francis sighed and turned his eyes to the door, grateful for the lack of customers and silently begging them to stay away. He was not doing his best work today. Francis suddenly remembered that stupid family legend he had told Matthew by the river a few days earlier, and realised he'd had it all wrong. It wasn't love that destroyed talent. It was heartbreak.

Some part of him still blamed his friends. Francis had immediately stormed from the party on Saturday night, devastated and furious, determined never to speak to Gilbert or Antonio ever again. 'Never again' turned out to be little more than a day, however, since Francis had finally answered one of Gilbert's constant phone calls early that morning.

"Uh, hi, man."

"Hello."

"How ya going?"

"Fine."

"Uh, good. Good. Thanks for the personally monogrammed Gucci wallet. Sorry I didn't open it in front of Matthew. I know you only gave it to me to look impressive in front of him, and I'm probably gonna lose it or something, but it's still a pretty awesome gift."

"Yes. It is."

Silence. "Man, I'm really sorry."

Francis sighed. "I know, Gil. You were just doing what you always do. What _we _always do. It was just… incredibly unfortunate timing."

"If it makes you feel any better, Roderich's angry as all hell with me. That's probably got more to do with the lap dance though… Anyway. Francis, I… look, you're pretty awesome, you know? I'm sorry for ragging on ya. You do what you want to do, and, well, _who_ you want to do, and that's awesome too. You're my best friend, and I just want you to be happy. So if you like Matthew… if you _love_ him… then you'd damn well better go after him. He's one hell of a lucky guy."

"Oh Gil, I…"

"Don't you dare get sappy on me, man. This conversation never happened, get it? I know where you live!"

Seconds after Gilbert hung up, Francis finally answered a call from Antonio.

"Francis! I'm sorry! I didn't mean it, I wasn't thinking, I'm an idiot! You're my best friend in the world and please don't hate me and I don't know what I'd do if you never spoke to me again and…"

"Antonio, calm down. We're cool."

"Oh. Ohhhh! Oh, thank God, I… okay. Okay cool. I have to go now, Lovino has the day off and we're going shopping for golf clubs and ponies. You go after Matthew!"

Francis had spent the rest of the day contemplating his friend's advice. He'd rung Matthew's number exactly thirty-three times without any response. Maybe he should just turn up at Matthew's door – but what if Matthew ignored him? What if he wasn't even there? Francis' stomach turned unpleasantly. What if this was it? What if he never saw his sweet, funny, perfect Mathieu again, all because of a foolish misunderstanding? He could not bear the thought. Francis listened to the rain echoing his sadness against the window, then almost jumped when the little bell jingled over the front door. Francis looked up at the two men entering the patisserie, began a greeting, then stopped short. One of the men - the tall, well-built blond - looked incredibly similar to Matthew, though slightly less handsome of course. And the other…

"_Merde!"_ Francis quickly ducked to avoid the bright pink cupcake that hurtled towards his head. It smashed into pieces against the wall behind him.

"You wine-swilling, snail-eating, bed-hopping BASTARD!"

_Oh shit, merde, no, how, where, why, oh God WHY…_ "Arthur!" Francis cried out in a mixture of false delight and genuine horror from where he crouched behind the counter. "What a pleasant surprise! What hole did you crawl out from, my _ros-bif_ friend?"

Arthur ignored the question. "Still playing the same tired games, Francis old boy?"

"...calling _me_ old..." Francis muttered, raising his head slightly behind the counter. "What the hell are you doing here?"

Arthur's face was twisted in fury. He looked exactly as Francis remembered. "Never you mind that. This time, _darling,_ you chose the wrong guy to play with. THIS time, YOU'RE the one who's fucked. With a ridged rolling pin. WITHOUT lube."

"But Arthur, darling, you always _liked_ that." Francis ducked again. This time it was an entire lemon meringue pie that splattered spectacularly against the wall. "_Oui, d'accord, _sorry, okay." Francis stood slowly, his hands raised in surrender. "Arthur, my dear, did you really track me down simply to attack me with pastry? It seems a little excessive. We were together for three days. You dumped me via billboard. Using my money."

The man by Arthur's side looked suddenly terrified. "You what?"

Arthur just shouted. "You deserved it, frog! You slept with fifteen sailors! And FILMED it!"

Francis put his head in his hands. He really wished people would stop mentioning that particular episode of his life... Why was he even dealing with this right now? "Arthur, you told me it was over!"

The tall blond laughed. "Oh, he tells me that every day. You're not supposed to believe him." Then he suddenly stopped laughing, his eyes going wide. "Wait a minute - you know each other?"

Arthur rolled his eyes sarcastically. "Blimey, you're quick. Alfred, meet Francis – an ex-boyfriend, and a right bloody wanker."

Alfred raised his hands to his chest, his expression horrified. "Arthur, you slept with my brother's boyfriend? That's, like, incest!"

Francis let out a deep breath, understanding dawning. "Alfred? Matthew's brother?"

"Yeah, and MY boyfriend, and he can kick your arse because he's bigger than you and he plays football!" Arthur had the good sense to look slightly embarrassed after this remark. Alfred looked quite pleased.

Francis rolled his eyes. At least it was a relief to know that Arthur was here on Matthew's behalf, and not because of some three day affair almost ten years earlier. "Arthur, you sound like a fourteen year old girl. Congratulations on the win last week, Alfred."

Alfred grinned. "Thanks, dude. Wait, no. I'm angry at you! Matt's moving to Alaska and becoming a trucker because of you! I SHOULD kick your ass!"

"Alaska? Trucker?"

"Do it, Alfred! You hold him down, I'll punch!"

Francis raised his hands again, desperately seeking some sort of foothold in this mad, rapid, confusing turn of events. His little shit of a British ex was standing in his patisserie, along with Matthew's football star brother, and apparently they were lovers. This was too much to deal with on a Monday afternoon. Francis reached under the counter for a tray of pastries. "Honestly, my dears, are we in primary school here? Can we not sit and talk like adults? Here, have an éclair."

Alfred's eyes lit up as he hurried forward. "Ooh, éclair!"

Arthur threw an arm across Alfred's chest. "No!" He glared at Francis. "Keep those pervy things away from innocent American eyes. Alfred, have a cupcake."

Alfred cheerfully took the red velvet cupcake Arthur handed him. "Ooh, cupcake!"

"Now he's taken care of, you can explain yourself, frog." Arthur placed his hands on his hips. His styled sandy-blond hair, his narrowed green eyes, his perfectly-pressed tweed suit – what had Francis ever seen in this little queen?

Francis folded his arms and glared back across the counter. "I do not have to explain myself to you, Arthur. I've done nothing that deserves an explanation."

Arthur scoffed loudly. "Excuse me? Through your typical, philandering ways you've set in action a chain of events which have led to me standing here, talking to you - something I'm sure you remember I swore I would NEVER do again. You've caused Alfred and I several very early morning tearful phone calls from Matthew. You've made Alfred run out the front door at five a.m shouting something about his brother moving to Antarctica. But most of all, you've broken the heart of one of the nicest, kindest, most genuinely decent blokes I've ever met. And I think _that _deserves an explanation."

Francis dropped all attempts at bravado after the mention of tearful phone calls and broken hearts. He was completely distraught at the thought of Matthew torn up like that. He stared at the counter, at the tray of ridiculous éclairs, and felt like smashing them to the ground. "Is Matthew all right?" he asked softly.

Alfred looked up from his cupcake, his expression gravely stern. "No. No, he's not."

Francis felt sick. "He won't answer my calls."

Alfred shrugged. "He put his phone in the freezer."

"What am I supposed to do?" Francis ran his hands through his hair, let out a frustrated sigh, and tried not to kick the wall. He did not even care now who he was speaking to, barely noticed these two men in front of him; he thought only of his darling Matthew and how much he missed him and wanted him and… "He won't listen to me. He won't let me explain. He overheard all these things that mean nothing, he thinks I do not want to be with him, he thinks I was using him, and..." Francis paused to breathe, to calm the overwhelming anxiety in his chest. "And nothing could be further from the truth."

Both men regarded Francis suspiciously. Then Alfred spoke. "Okay. First of all, this cupcake is incredible."

Francis couldn't even affect his usual proud, polished routine. He just mumbled, "Thanks."

"Now," continued Alfred, drawing himself up to his full height, his apparent attempt at intimidation ruined by the red icing on his lips and fingers. "You're saying that you _do_ like Matt? As more than a fling? As more than a trick?"

"As more than anything." Francis looked Alfred in the eye and spoke with every ounce of certainty he possessed. "I'm completely in love with him."

Alfred and Arthur glanced at each other, eyebrows raised. Arthur turned his still-suspicious eyes back on Francis. "You? In love?"

Francis shrugged. "What do you want me to say? How do you wish me to explain this? I've spent my entire life not even realising I was searching for something. I've made mistakes, and I've had fun, and I won't apologise for it. But in Matthew, I found everything I never knew I was looking for. He is the only person to ever make me feel like this. I love him, and I miss him, and I will do anything to convince him he is the most wonderfully unique person I have ever known."

Again, Alfred looked at Arthur. "What do you think?"

"I don't trust him," hissed Arthur. "I still think we should kick his arse."

Francis did not even know why he was explaining this to them. Maybe because it was easier than explaining it to himself. "It does not matter if you believe me." Francis closed his eyes and sighed. "None of this matters if I can't say it to Matthew. If only I could get him to listen…"

"All right, Frenchy, here's the deal." Alfred finished his cupcake, licked his fingers, then pointed at Francis. "I'll get Matt to talk to you, but I've got a couple of conditions."

Francis was caught between gasping in exhilaration and snorting in derision. How tiresome – this was like some sort of medieval courtship ritual. But if it meant he could somehow speak to Matthew… Francis gritted his teeth. "Do go on."

Alfred counted off on his fingers. "One – if you upset Matthew, I will kick your ass. Two – if you upset Arthur, oh boy, I will KICK your ASS. Three…" Alfred paused for a moment and licked his fingers again. "I'll take a carton of those cupcakes."

Francis rolled his eyes. "This talk of 'ass-kicking' is growing a little tedious, my dear. Regardless…" Francis nodded, the chance to see Matthew and explain everything too much to risk. Anticipation fired through his nerves and hope rose in his chest. "It is a deal, _mon ami."_


	6. Champagne et Chocolat

**CHAPTER SIX**  
><strong>Champagne et Chocolat<strong>

.

Francis could not say what was worse about this waiting. The freezing cold; the tight anxiety in the pit of his stomach; the entire surreal reality of where he was and what he was doing. He'd spent the last three days organising this, had blown his entire savings doing it, and he still could not quite believe he had managed it. But at the same time, he did not regret it. After all, what better way to prove to Matthew that Francis was serious about him? To prove he loved him and understood him and wanted the gorgeous Canadian in his life? But if Matthew said no… if he walked away… oh God, if he laughed at him… Francis took a deep breath and tried to stop his self-sabotaging imagination from conjuring up even more awful possibilities. He twisted his hands together and focused on the positives – hey, if all else failed, at least this was a good business opportunity. Francis shifted on the horribly cold, uncomfortable bench, and glanced sideways through the dim light. Actually, he did know the worst part of this cold, nervous waiting. The man who was keeping him company.

"Having fun yet, darling?"

Arthur sneered over his needlework. He was rather violently knitting what looked like a bright pink tea cosy. "Don't _darling _me, frog. I'm only here as moral support for Matthew when he inevitably rejects you."

Francis couldn't help laughing. It was comforting how some things never changed. "How I've missed your particular brand of vicious, gut-stabbing optimism, Arthur."

Arthur shot him a derisive glare. "How I wish I could return the compliment. Oh wait - no I don't."

Francis just shrugged, tapped his feet on the ground, and glanced again around the dark, barren, damned _freezing_ hall. His stomach twisted in knots, and this silence was driving him mad. He needed a distraction. "So, what are you up to these days, darl- Arthur? Besides shacking up with the most famous quarterback in America?" Francis gave a tiny salute. "Well done, by the way."

"I own a bookshop." Arthur returned the gesture without looking up. "And cheers."

"A bookshop?" Francis nodded thoughtfully and drummed his fingers on the bench. "Lovely. Appropriate. Do you still own that massive collection of Victorian pornography?"

Arthur's hands fumbled and his knitting needles slipped. "Those books are for historical research purposes only!"

"Research," Francis repeated doubtfully. "Nothing… personal, of course."

"Of course not!" Arthur was quickly turning a rather interesting shade of red. "And the collection isn't massive at all!"

"I seem to recall an entire bookshelf full," Francis replied innocently.

Arthur's knuckles were white as he gripped the needles. "It was _never _an entire bookshelf!"

Francis bit back a giggle. Oh, this was too easy… "Heavy, well-thumbed tomes jam-packed with virgins and incest and lusty, well-hung British gentlemen, conquering and deflowering and…"

A needle snapped. "RESEARCH!"

Francis smirked. "There's no need to be embarrassed, darling, we all have our kinks."

Arthur peered fiercely sideways, reaching into his bag for a new knitting needle. "Sailors, wasn't it?"

Francis' smirk fell immediately. So much for distraction. "If I hear one more word…" he muttered irritably.

More uncomfortable silence, but for the furious clacking of Arthur's knitting needles. Once again, Francis' mind started to turn. It took him five minutes to realise he was chewing on his perfectly manicured nails. "This is crazy, isn't it?" He wasn't even sure whom he was asking. "Tell me, honestly, this is mad."

Arthur paused his knitting. "Honestly?"

Francis' heart sunk. "Yes."

"This is mad."

"_Merde._" Francis dropped his head despondently into his hands. "What would you do, Arthur? What would you do if someone did this for you?"

"This?" Arthur looked around pointedly. "After barely knowing the bloke a week? I'd freak out, naturally, and run like hell."

Francis felt sick. _"Dieu au secours..."_

Arthur stayed silent for a moment more. "You're nervous," he said finally. He sounded incredulous.

Francis threw his hands up in the air. "Of course I am nervous! What if Matthew does not believe me? What if he simply turns and leaves? Why am I even asking you this, _qu'est que c'est…_ What if he spits in my face, Arthur?"

Arthur looked much too pleased by that last scenario. "You'll get over it, old chap. Besides, look on the bright side - everyone will be much better off. Besides you, of course, but that's of little consequence."

"You are such a little shit."

"And you are an arrogant, swaggering Lothario." Arthur spat the words viciously. But then he let out a deep breath and tilted his head, his eyes narrowed appraisingly. "Well, most of the time. Which is why this nervousness is so surprising. You actually love Matthew, don't you?"

Francis simply gestured around the enormous room, at the lengths he had gone to for his radiant Canadian. "And you realise this now?"

Arthur wrinkled his forehead curiously. He almost seemed apologetic. "It is a hard thing to fathom that you could care for anything but your next shag. Perhaps I underestimated you."

This conversation was becoming far too amiable for Francis' liking. He had to break the mood. "Having regrets, Arthur? You're not still upset that…" Francis gestured between them. "That this didn't work?"

Arthur rolled his eyes and sneered angrily. "Oh, come off it, Francis."

Francis wagged his eyebrows. "Admit it, the sex was good." Arthur eyed him doubtfully, and Francis felt immediately indignant. If nothing else, he knew he was good in that department. Francis was a blasted God in that department. How dare Arthur insinuate otherwise! "What?"

Arthur rested his knitting in his lap, leant back on the bench, and fixed Francis with a penetrating stare. "Tell me. Have you ever actually slept with someone you were in love with?"

"Uh…" Francis had to think about that. He thought about it for a very long time. He was almost embarrassed to reply… "…no."

"Oh, Francis." Arthur looked far too smug as he shook his head and laughed. "Just you wait."

Sleeping with someone he loved. With Matthew... The thought of it sent Francis' blood firing downwards and he had to bite his lip. Best not to think too much on that subject right now. He changed it to something suitably horrifying. "You do realise that if Matthew takes me back, that will basically make us brothers-in-law."

Arthur's features changed from smug to horrified in an instant. "Oh, bloody hell. Can you imagine Christmas?"

Arthur drinking all the cooking brandy, Francis' beautifully baked Christmas cake splattered against the wall… "All too easily," Francis groaned.

"I suppose all we can do is hope for the best. He probably won't take you back."

Francis laughed, slapping Arthur on the back with perhaps the slightest bit too much force. "I hate you, Arthur."

Arthur grinned, though it may have been a snarl. "You too, _darling_."

.

Alfred had been sleeping on Matthew's couch for three days now. Not that Matthew minded, really. It was actually nice to have something help take his mind off things – even if it was coming home to find his bathroom repainted, or his kitchen walls coated in deep-fried grease, or a small collection of paparazzi photographers on his doorstep. At least Alfred's daily exploits added some sense of life to Matthew's otherwise dull, listless, heartbroken days. But even with these small diversions, Matthew still could not stop thinking of Francis. His warm, sexy smile, his teasing voice, that perfect, blissful sense of belonging Matthew felt in his presence. Nothing, no one, had ever impacted his boring life so much. He was almost at the point of finally caving in and running to the patisserie to beg for some sort of hope or closure or who even knew what.

Because, well… what if Matthew _did_ have it wrong? What if he'd jumped too quickly to the wrong conclusion? What if Francis really had liked him... had _more_ than liked him... and everything Matthew had heard to suggest otherwise was simply a misunderstanding? But those questions were pointless. Nothing more than desperately wishful thinking. That bright, brief romance was over, and the sooner he came to terms with that the better.

It was Wednesday morning when yet another diversion barrelled into Matthew's bedroom, whistling tunelessly and flinging open the curtains and tossing a heavy snow jacket onto the bed. "Dress warmly, Matt!"

Matthew rolled over clumsily, batting the sheet from his head and blinking his way to awareness. "What? Huh? Who… Wha?"

Alfred was fully dressed in a thick jacket, snow boots, and oddly enough, a bright pink knitted beanie. He grinned down at Matthew with that daftly cheerful look of his. "We're going out. I've got something to show you."

"Show me? What are you on about?" Matthew brushed the hair from his face and squinted at his alarm clock. "It's 6 a.m. I have to get ready for work soon."

Alfred scoffed as he threw open the closet doors, grabbing random handfuls of hanging clothes. "One day off won't hurt you. Come on, you've been totally boring since I got here. It's time you cheered up a bit, dude."

Matthew groaned and threw the blankets back over his head. Maybe he wasn't so grateful to have his brother here, after all. "I don't want to cheer up. I want to go to work."

"No you don't, you never want to go to work." Matthew yelped indignantly when Alfred pulled the blankets off him. "Now get up, get dressed…" Alfred winked and threw a balled-up shirt at Matthew's chest. "And trust me."

Matthew's stomach lurched at the words. This could _not_ be good.

.

"Alfred, I'm seriously starting to freak out a little here..."

Matthew was also seriously starting to regret letting Alfred talk him into this. The walk had seemed fairly innocent to start with, until the unexpected turn into a narrow, quiet street in the older part of town. Matthew's apprehension had only grown at Alfred's insistence they enter this large, abandoned building, only to find that it was dark, empty, deathly silent, and utterly freezing. A faintly damp, dusty smell hung in the air. Matthew was used to Alfred talking him into this sort of thing when they were kids, but they were far too old now to be traipsing around building sites. Matthew could barely see Alfred in this darkness, but his obnoxious laughter echoed through the vast silence. "Like I said, Matt - trust me!"

Matthew scoffed loudly at that. He almost tripped over a broken beam as he tried to keep up with his mad brother. "_Trust _you?! Where the heck are you leading me? This is really stupid, Al. I know you've been trying to take my mind off things lately, but really..."

Suddenly, a single overhead light flicked on up ahead. Matthew broke off and halted, staring in surprise at the vertical beam shining down through the gloom. The solitary spotlight illuminated a single object: an old-fashioned lamppost, wrought in wood and iron, with a small sign hanging from its side. Matthew's stomach twisted in a strange mixture of excitement and wariness. He stared for a moment more, stunned and intrigued, before curiosity overcame him and he hurried towards the startling image.

The bizarre polished sign hung at eye level. An intricate red rose was chiselled into the wood, beside four elaborately carved words: _La Patinoire de la Rose. _Matthew's heart leapt in his chest; his throat went dry. Those words and that symbol were too familiar, too reminiscent of something he had tried too hard to forget. Except for that one word… _Patinoire_…

"Ice rink?" As soon as he said the words, an entire ceiling of overhead bulbs flicked on and flooded the room with light. Matthew had to blink a few times before his eyes adjusted to the brightness. Gradually, he began to make out features of a large, open hall around him: a few rows of stadium style benches, a high, slanted ceiling, cracking white walls. His sense of wariness quickly started to overwhelm his brief excitement. If his blasted brother got him arrested again… "Alfred? Seriously, what's…" Matthew glanced around for his brother, only to find, with a sinking stomach, that he had disappeared. But right at Matthew's feet…

Matthew froze. Everything seemed to slow, and stop, and turn upside down. His skin began to tingle and his breath to quicken. No wonder it was so cold: the floor stretched out before him was covered entirely in ice. But Matthew did not wonder where it had come from, or how he had taken so long to notice, or how this pool of ice could possibly stay frozen inside this old, broken, obviously abandoned building. All he could see, with a soft gasp and a wild rush of understanding, was that the ice was covered in a light red layer. A layer of rose petals. "Oh my God…"

Matthew looked up slowly, his eyes widening and his head going light. At that very moment, a figure emerged between the dark benches opposite and skated onto the ice. Matthew's heart stuttered. He could not move, could hardly think, could barely believe that this was happening and not some dream from which he would wake at any moment now, upside down on the couch and covered in maple syrup.

"Francis." Matthew whispered it, the word falling unbidden from his lips, breathless and stunned.

Francis was almost unbearably handsome, perfectly poised, and frustratingly sexy as he skated easily towards Matthew; his jeans low-slung and his blonde hair falling on his cheeks and, of course, a single red rose held in his hand. It seemed an eternity before he finally skated to a stop at the edge of the ice. He held the rose out to Matthew, cool and warm and smiling. "_Bonjour_, darling."

The breathtaking sound of Francis' lilting, teasing voice sent Matthew's stuttering heart racing. It was hard to believe it was only three days since he'd seen him. It felt like a lifetime. "Francis…" he whispered again, as though to convince himself.

Francis' chest rose and fell swiftly, though his handsome face was as calm and playful as ever. "Mathieu," he said with a wink.

Matthew had to bite his lip when Francis spoke his name in that familiar, sensuous accent. His traitorous hand shook with desire to reach out and touch him. But he quickly pulled himself together; quickly broke himself from this stunned, honeyed haze. "Francis, what are you doing?"

Francis looked down and tapped a skate against the ice. "Skating, darling. It's a lovely day for it."

Matthew felt incredulous laughter rise in his chest. "Skating? How did you manage this?" He gestured in confusion at the ice. This building was obviously not intended as an ice rink.

Francis' dancing blue eyes stared at Matthew like they were devouring him. It was all so achingly familiar, as though that awful Saturday fight and the following days of grief had never happened. Matthew could almost smell the sweet, delicious scent of cakes in a patisserie, or pasta and wine by a river. Francis shrugged. "It is amazing what one can accomplish with a sporting celebrity and a friend in the destruction industry."

"Sporting celeb…" The words snapped Matthew back to attention. He again glanced around for his absent brother. "_Alfred_ helped you with this?"

Francis nodded. He still held the red rose before him, as though waiting for Matthew to take it. "He's been amazingly helpful. Besides the constant demand for cupcakes, of course."

Matthew paused briefly. No wonder Alfred had been so distracted these last few days… he'd been _helping_ Francis. This was huge! This meant that Alfred _trusted_ the Frenchman, which was an enormous accomplishment on Francis' part. This also meant that Alfred had gone behind Matthew's back, and Matthew was going to kill him. "But… I don't…" Matthew's brain was firing too fast and too madly to keep up. And Francis' gorgeous smile was not helping matters. "Wait, destruction? This building is being torn down?"

"It was. Until I rescued it." Francis lifted one shoulder and shifted slightly on his skates. Matthew was rather impressed at how easily he was managing on them. "I have been thinking of expanding the patisserie, after all."

"Expanding? Wait, you _own_ this place?" Matthew had to stop to breathe. He had spent the last few days trying to forget Francis. After all, the last time they had spoken Matthew had turned and stormed away, certain their brief flirtation was over. Now, he was not so sure. "Francis, what's going on?"

Francis took a deep breath, dropped the rose, and carefully took Matthew's hand instead. Matthew's skin burned at the touch. With Francis standing before him, Matthew could only now realise how much he had missed him. And it was stunning. He could not think of a reason to pull away. "Do you see that little room in the corner?" Matthew looked where Francis pointed, to a small glass-walled room built into a front corner of the hall. "A little café. With good French coffee and velvet cupcakes and the best éclairs in town. And this -" Francis tapped the ground with his bladed boot. "- of course it will be bigger, and properly enclosed, but..."

Matthew whispered. "_Patinoire_…" What he had always wanted; what he had told Francis last week by the river. _A little skating rink, somewhere friendly, with hockey and dance lessons and a little café by the rink…_ Now Matthew was beyond stunned. He was utterly astonished. Had Francis had done all this for him? Bought an _ice rink_ for him? Surely not… that was _crazy…_

"_Oui. La Patinoire de la Rose._ An extension of _la_ _Patisserie_. A brilliant business idea, no?" Francis continued before Matthew could respond. "However, I actually know very little of business. And nothing at all of ice."

"You skate well." Matthew was too bewildered to think or say anything else.

Francis lowered his eyes and gave a tiny shrug. "Darling, you flatter me. I learnt this morning."

Matthew suddenly felt very warm despite the frozen air. "You'd make a brilliant hockey player, I'm sure."

Francis leant forward, his very warmth misting around Matthew and enveloping him. "I see myself as more of a figure skater, personally."

"Of course." Matthew smiled slightly, losing himself in that warmth and that smile and those dancing blue eyes. "With feathers and sequins and a truckload of glitter."

Francis gasped, his eyes flashing. "Fabulous, darling!"

Matthew let out a breath of laughter. Oh, this came back so easily. And how much he'd missed this, missed Francis, missed the way he made Matthew feel… but as much as Matthew wanted to fall into Francis' arms, he could not completely forget the events of that awful Saturday night. Matthew shook this bewildered, teasing fog from his head and tried to look angry, or hurt, or at least confused. "But, what has this got to do with me? Do you want business advice, or tax breaks? I thought you were done with me, Francis. I thought this was over."

At that, Francis paused. His hold on Matthew's hand was light, yet so strong... Matthew wondered why he did not pull away. Francis' smile fell and his expression turned determined. "Forget this, Matthew." Matthew's eyebrows flew upwards, but Francis continued unfazed. "Forget the ice, forget the café, forget this madness and just listen to me." Francis looked intense and hopeful, apologetic and wonderful all at once. Matthew had no choice but to listen to his simple, earnest, honest words.

"I want you, Matthew. No one else. _You._ From the first moment I saw you walk into my patisserie, I knew I had never wanted anyone more. _Mon Dieu_, Mathieu_..._" Francis closed his eyes, opened them, sighed like he did not know how to express this. Finally he simply repeated the words, spoke them like they were obvious. "I want you."

How did Francis make it so simple? Matthew could only half-heartedly ask an explanation. "At Gilbert's place. They said…"

"Charlotte - Antonio, Gil..." Francis turned his head sharply, his expression drawn between pain and laughter. "I will always be honest with you, Matthew. Yes, I have had a lot of sex. I won't deny that. But, in my entire life, I have never once been in love." Francis caught Matthew's eyes in an honest, head-spinning gaze. "Not until I met you."

Francis' words melted the last of the freezing cold. Instead, Matthew felt a tingling heat spread through every part of him. Was he supposed to be angry? He could not even remember why. He could only feel relief, and belonging, and Francis' hand like fire in his own. He could only believe him. "You say you want me…" Matthew let the words trail away.

Francis' lips were so close. Matthew's hands, his blood, his very bones ached for those lips to be closer. "Yes. In every way. Not as a game, or a conquest, or a joke. Not as someone to use and throw away. Not what you were no doubt thinking the other evening, after hearing those horrible things, those things that meant nothing. No, Mathieu, I want to _know_ you. All of you." Francis reached out a hand; Matthew almost fell forward when he brushed his cheek. "I want to know what makes you laugh; what makes you cry. I want to know how you sigh, how you moan, how you taste." Francis' lips turned up slowly, softly. "I want to see how you look when you wake up in the morning. And I want to spend forever finding out."

Matthew's blood fired and sent his head spinning. All his concerns melted to nothing, dispersed like his heavy breath misting into the frozen air. He could see no lie in Francis' eyes. This might be too slow, or too fast, but it was everything he ever wanted to hear. And maybe it was stupid, and maybe he was wrong, but maybe this was the most important moment of his life, and maybe Matthew just had to believe. So Matthew gave in. He fell forward, reached for Francis' collar, and pulled him into a desperate, perfect, _at-last_ embrace.

Francis breathed a small gasp of surprise. It took him a moment to respond, and when he did it was more intense than Matthew could have ever hoped or imagined. Francis practically devoured Matthew's lips as he kissed him, grasped his arms and his head and his waist, breathed in sharply and pulled him as close as he could possibly manage. He obviously forgot he was on skates, however, and promptly stumbled, until Matthew had to struggle to hold him up. Wild laughter met between their lips. The familiar scent of lavender and spun sugar sent a delightful, shivering wave across Matthew's skin. It felt incredible to touch Francis again, to be held in his arms, to be pressed together from chest to thigh. It felt right; it felt like home.

Francis laughed against Matthew's hair, his eyes bright and relieved and overjoyed. "Should it be this easy?"

Matthew shook his head, mad joy bubbling through every part of him and turning his head light with the perfect bliss of this perfect moment. "I don't know. I've never done this before."

Francis winked. "Are we doing it right, do you think?"

"I don't know. Does it matter?" Matthew did not wait for an answer. He just pulled Francis into another kiss, all the comfort and belonging and easiness of Francis' arms falling into place around him.

Francis' lips were soft and steady and smiling, his frozen hands pressed to Matthew's heated cheeks. When he broke the kiss, his breath tickled Matthew's cheek, and he attempted to look serious. "No, it doesn't matter. What matters is that you understand." Francis ran his thumb over Matthew's parted lips. "Matthew, I've never felt for anyone what I feel for you. Please give me a chance to prove that to you."

"Prove it?" With a jolt of reality, Matthew remembered just where they were standing. An ice rink, a café… His throat tightened; his chest soared. "You're asking me…"

Francis interrupted, as though in a rush to explain. "You said to me, last week by the river. That you wanted a small ice rink." Francis grasped Matthew's arms tightly, gazed into his eyes earnestly. "This is for you, Matthew. This is for us. _La Patinoire de la Rose._" Francis looked up at the glowing ceiling, over at the wide, peeling walls. "Give this a chance, _mon cher_. Give me a chance."

Matthew shook his head in amazement, his eyes wide and his heart racing. Francis certainly knew how to surprise him, but at least this remained the same – he always knew how to make Matthew feel special; important; adored. "This is the biggest, craziest, most unbelievable thing anyone has ever done for me."

Francis looked briefly uncertain. "So it's a bit much?"

"Of course it's a bit much." Matthew lowered his eyes and laughed softly. "But that's just you, isn't it, darling?" He glanced up through his lashes, breathed in Francis' presence. "Francis, I can think of nothing better than being business partners."

"I can." Francis placed his hand at the base of Matthew's back, leaving trails of fire with heavy fingers. "How about just... partners?"

Matthew reminded himself to breathe. "The term is a little impersonal, don't you think?"

"Darling, I completely agree." Francis tilted his head, so his words were almost a whisper in Matthew's ear. "I always preferred 'lovers,' myself."

Matthew fought back a moan. He realised now, he had only ever doubted Francis because Matthew doubted himself. But the truth had been there all along, from the first moment. Francis wanted him. Francis loved him; and Matthew felt the same. What more was there? This time when their lips met, it was with the promise of a future between them. Matthew's life turned and changed and started in this single moment, in a single, brilliant burst of colour. And while Matthew knew it would be different now, he also knew that it would never be dull and grey again.

.

"Champagne?"

Matthew raised a single eyebrow, and Francis started to feel a little unsure. The afternoon had passed in a colourful blur. Gliding slowly on the small pool of rose-covered ice, hands clasped and eyes locked; an easy, peaceful afternoon spent laughing and touching and planning a future together. Matthew was so graceful and strong on the ice, all his delightful shyness and brilliant sarcasm washing away the last of Francis' doubt and anxiety. Francis was simply filled with pure joy and relief that Matthew had accepted his words; had understood him. And now they were back where they started: in _La Patisserie de la Rose, _although this time in Francis' luxuriously decorated bedroom above the patisserie. It felt like a threshold; like all their moments spent together had led them here, and to what lay beyond this.

Francis hadn't been sure how Matthew would react to the deep red velvet and black silk of his bedroom décor. And now he wasn't quite sure where to go from here. He'd had dozens of men in this room - he knew how to do this. But he also knew it was different this time. And without an idea how to act in this new situation, Francis clung to his same-old methods. He just shrugged lightly when Matthew stared at the champagne bottle. "Apparently it is the done thing."

"Well, you'd know."

"Ouch, darling. So, no champagne?"

Matthew shook his head and closed his eyes. When he opened them they almost seemed to blaze. With his lip between his teeth he took a single deep breath, brushed the hair from his neck, and sent Francis' blood pumping downwards. The air fairly crackled with sudden tension between them, their eyes fixed by an invisible thread. Francis' palms started to sweat, his breath quicken, his muscles tense. Then Matthew walked slowly across the room towards him. "I don't want champagne. I don't want roses. I don't want fancy words and grand gestures. It's exactly as you said to me today, Francis - I only want you."

Francis did not know how to respond. It took him a second to realise that he was nervous. How utterly ridiculous - he wasn't supposed to be nervous! He was the confident one, the one with all the words and all the moves - the one who did the seducing. He wasn't supposed to feel his hands trembling and his neck burning; to feel like his fragile heart was about to pound through his skin. He was suddenly aware of just how different this really was. No one, in all his years, had ever made Francis feel like this.

Matthew reached him, and for the briefest second, Francis was uncertain as to where this was leading. But then those blazing eyes blinked, and lowered, and Matthew was his shy Canadian once again. Francis practically gasped in relief. He slammed the champagne bottle into the bedside ice-bucket, took Matthew by the waist, and kissed him deeper and more thoroughly than he'd ever kissed him before. Just like that, Francis was certain again, and there was absolutely no doubt where this was leading.

Matthew returned the kiss with equal intensity and quickly receding shyness; pressing his hips to Francis' and grasping his arms with surprising strength. By the time they fell onto the wide, silken bed, lost in the throes of each other, the champagne was forgotten. Then Francis felt everything that came before simply wash away, and this was like the first time.

Because when Francis lost himself in Matthew's heat and breath, it was more than just their bodies that connected. This was more than the fast, frantic madness Francis was used to. This was taking the time to learn Matthew's body - what made him sigh, what made him cry out. The way Matthew moved with Francis, against him and around him, like their bodies were made to fit together. This was losing himself in the breathiness of Matthew's sighs, the softness of his skin, oh God the _sounds_ he made. This was the culmination of all those glances, all those touches; it was the destination, and it was the beginning.

This _was_ the first time – because it was his first time with Matthew. Francis had never experienced sex like this. It was the first time there was nothing dominant, and nothing submissive about it; Francis had never felt this equality, and those words did not apply. It just stretched on forever, over and again, and it wasn't about who was where and it wasn't about control. This was about sharing themselves and being with each other and, really, it didn't matter a damn who ended up inside the other.

The night passed in a light, intense haze of touch and scent and sound, in another world where nothing existed but Matthew, and nothing mattered but him. By the time they lay tangled in the sheets, sated and breathless, the light through the windows was already turning grey. Their lips still moved lazily, laughter rising easily between them. Their fingers still traced light, grounding circles on sense-heightened skin. With one arm firmly clasped around Matthew's waist, Francis grabbed the champagne from the ice bucket and took a long sip.

"Well."

Matthew squeezed Francis' side. "Well."

So that was the difference – sleeping with someone he loved. It was more than Francis had ever dared imagine. He laughed softly. "What do you know. He was right."

"Huh? Who?"

"Oh, just something Ar..." Francis stopped himself. Not something he wanted to think about in this golden moment. "Nothing." He kissed Matthew's head, the edges of his hair damp with sweat.

Matthew just hummed lowly and pressed a kiss to Francis's skin, draped lazily across his chest. Francis doubted he even understood the words. But then he suddenly gasped, his eyes widening when he noticed the tray on the bedside table. "Oh, Francis... You've got chocolate as well?!"

Francis glanced at the small tray of specialty creations he'd placed there earlier: little heart-shaped spirals of dark chocolate, each topped with a different coloured peak. He had spent three days designing them, using only the finest ingredients and the most stringent methods. After all, he needed something to replace the éclairs. "The done thing, darling."

Matthew reached eagerly for the tray, but Francis handed him the champagne and picked up a piece first. He lifted it to Matthew's lips, smiling, a warm glow filling his chest. Matthew laughed breathily, his lips slightly swollen, his cheeks still flushed and gorgeous. "Really?

Francis winked, though his heart was practically convulsing. After hours beneath the sheets, he still only wanted more of Matthew. "Leave me some of my silly romance."

Matthew rolled his eyes, but his lips could not stop smiling. "I love your silly romance." He took the chocolate with his teeth, then his eyes fluttered closed. He gave a faint moan as he tasted it, grasping Francis' hand and rolling his tongue over Francis's fingers. Francis' already heated skin burned with a familiar stirring. Matthew's eyebrows shot up and he glanced down smugly. "Again?"

"It's your fault, my dear!" Francis felt practically giddy. This was like being a teenager again. He tapped Matthew's lips. "Now, you _must_ tell me what you think."

"Delicious, darling." Matthew smirked and bit Francis' fingertip lightly. "But perhaps a slight rest is in order."

Francis groaned and gave an exaggerated frown. "But only slight, yes?"

Matthew pushed his shoulder and laughed. With the champagne in his hand he fell back against Francis' chest; their sweat-dampened skin starting to cool and their bare legs tangled together beneath the sheets. He sighed contentedly. "I could get used to this."

Francis could spend a lifetime getting used to this. He could not imagine anything more wonderful. He ran his hand over Matthew's bare chest and whispered against his neck. "You'd better, _mon cher_."

.

_Six months later_…

"Hahaha! I _told_ you you couldn't keep up with me, Arthur! Arthur? Why do you keep turning in circles?"

"Because I can't stop oh bloody hell whose brilliant idea was it to put men on ice this isn't natural bugger bollocks shit shit shit…"

"Let go of the railing, Lovino… here, hold my hand. I will not let you fall!"

"I'm not going to fall, bastard! Stop holding onto me! I know what I'm do… _don't let go!"_

"Hey, Roddy baby, look at this! Look at me jump! Ha, wasn't that awesome?! Roddy, baby, are you watching?"

"Yes, yes, Gilbert, I'm _still_ watching. That's very nice. Now, why don't you go off and race the loud American?"

"Ludwig! Catch me! Spin me! Lift me! Turn me! ARGH LUDWIG HELP!"

"_Mein Gott, _PLEASE watch where you are going, Feliciano… _Entschuldigung_, Lili…"

"That's okay, Ludwig, everyone's smashing into me today. I got totally slammed between Gil and Roderich earlier, and Arthur's had me over the railing twice. Eliza, where are you dragging me..."

"Come on, Lili dear, you're about to give poor Ludwig a stroke."

"What did I do?"

Matthew was floating on ice. He smiled serenely as he glided through his small group of friends, shouting and racing and taking advantage of having the rink to themselves. Although Kiku and Herakles preferred to keep Francis company in the corner café, where Bruce and Lars were currently concocting God knows what in the kitchen. _La Patinoire de la Rose_ had just seen its first mad, hectic, jam-packed day open to the public. Matthew was pretty sure Alfred's attendance and Roderich's afternoon concert in the café had helped to attract customers, although Francis' new heart-shaped chocolates had walked out the door and Matthew's junior ice hockey lessons were already fully signed up. All in all, opening day had been a wild success.

Alfred raced up from behind and tapped Matthew's shoulder. "Race ya, Matt!" It was a familiar cry from years of winter holidays spent with his brother, racing along frozen rivers and in ice rinks colder than this one. Matthew grinned back and raced to close the head start Alfred had given himself. He passed him easily: this was one place where Matthew could always beat his brother. He raced past Antonio holding a scowling Lovino by the waist, turned around Lili and Eliza coming to Arthur's rescue, and dodged Gilbert hefting Feliciano into a lift while Ludwig and Roderich watched and rolled their eyes. Then, up ahead, Francis suddenly appeared; a bottle and glass in his hands, handsome and sexy and smiling brightly as he leant against the railing. Matthew's heart leapt and spurred him to skate even faster. He flew up to Francis, steadying himself against the railing, ignoring his brother's cries of outrage from behind. Francis leant over and gave Matthew a quick kiss, a wave of scented caramel wafting from his hair. "Congratulations, darling."

Matthew shrugged modestly in response and took the offered plastic cup of champagne. Matthew was filled with elation and pride for what he and Francis had accomplished in six months. _La Patinoire de la Rose_ was unlike any ice rink Matthew had ever seen. The high ceiling was studded with lights encased in ornate silver designs. The once cracking walls were now replaced with a wooden finish, decorated with carefully glass-protected artworks. Bunches of roses sat in pots around the hall, specially bred for the cold. Everywhere he looked, colour burst, while the warm, delicious scent of baking pastry wafted from the nearby café.

Matthew only managed a small sip of the champagne before Gilbert skated up beside him and snatched it from his hand. "Awesome! Time to christen this baby! Give me the bottle, Francis."

Francis' expression twisted in horror when Gilbert wrenched the bottle from his hand. "If you break that, Gilbert…"

Gilbert just stuck out his tongue. He took a swig from Matthew's glass, handed it back to him, then raised the unopened bottle in the air. "OI! Attention!"

The group drew closer to the railing, coming to a slow stop on the ice. Arthur continued in circles for a few moments until Lili and Eliza helped him to a halt. Feliciano broke into applause. "Yay! Speech!"

Matthew shook his head firmly. "No, Gilbert, you really don't have to…"

Gilbert ignored him. "Now, I'll be the first to say that I _never_ thought I would see our Francis settling down."

Francis groaned loudly. "Is he really doing this?"

Matthew rolled his eyes, but couldn't help smiling also. He was incredibly grateful for the amazing help he and Francis had received from everyone - including Gilbert. This small group already felt like a family. "Yeah, he's doing this."

"How can we stop him?" asked Francis.

"Got a gag?" muttered Ludwig.

Antonio giggled. "Ask Roder… OW! What? Come on, it never gets old!"

"BUT," Gilbert continued, unperturbed, "I will also be the first to say, he couldn't have settled down with a nicer guy. And, although an ice rink is sort of freaking weird…"

"And bleedin' insane, bloody hell…"

Lili giggled as she held Arthur by the shoulder. "Arthur, it's not as hard as you're making it! Just spread your knees, bend over a bit, and make your strokes longer…"

Eliza patted Arthur on the back as he was hit by a sudden coughing fit. "Lili, darling, _try_ and think before you speak..."

Gilbert continued again, unfazed. "…the thing is, people say a lot of things are freaking weird, so whatever. This is Francis and Matt's thing. And if it's their thing, and it works for them, then that's all that matters." Gilbert winked at Roderich then glared pointedly at Antonio. "Whatever some boring, vanilla people might think."

Roderich shook his head and muttered, "The vulgarity…"

"He's right, you know," said Alfred loudly. "I've tried telling Arthur that he shouldn't care what people think about his freaky old porn books, but he still keeps the entire bookshelf hidden in the basement."

Francis snickered. "An _entire_ bookshelf, was it?"

Arthur made a strangled sound somewhere between a furious growl and a frustrated scream. "You JUST WAIT until I get off these bloody skates, the BOTH of you!"

Feliciano clapped his hands together and cried, "I don't think the ice rink is weird, I think it's fantastic! It's almost as cool as those brownies Bruce and Lars gave me earlier!"

Silence fell for a moment. Ludwig managed to stomp away angrily on his skates, heading for the café and muttering something about Dutch stoners and their Australian accomplices.

Francis took the opportunity to cut in. "Lovely speech, thank you, Gil…"

"Oh, I'm not done…"

Roderich smiled forcefully and squeezed Gilbert's shoulder. "Oh, you're done, Gilbert."

Gilbert rolled his eyes. "Fine, whatever. I suppose nothing remains then, but to say..." He grinned and raised the bottle. "Here's to Francis and Matt's awesome new business venture, to their awesome new life, and when the inevitable happens, I call Best Man. To _La_ _Patinoire de la Rose!'_" Gilbert shook the bottle furiously, popped the cork, and Matthew jumped back in shock when he sprayed the golden bubbles across the assembled group.

"You GERMAN BASTARD!" Lovino shouted furiously as he received the main brunt of the drenching wine.

Antonio cried out indignantly, "So unfair, Gilbert, _I _want to be best man!"

"Champagne showers, ve!" Feliciano held out his arms and spun circles in the spraying champagne, while Arthur looked utterly horrified.

"What the bloody hell are you doing, you blasted Kraut, I could've _drunk_ that!"

"Hahaha!" Alfred laughed wildly. "Look, Arthur, if I open my mouth I can catch some of it!"

Lili gave a sharp cry of surprise, shaking the champagne from her hair and running a hand down her neck. "Ohhh, now I'm _soaking_ wet!"

Eliza stifled a groan. "Lili, sweetheart, now you're going to give _me_ a stroke…"

Shrieks and laughter filled the air as the small group dispersed, spreading out onto the ice to escape Gilbert's frenzied yet surprisingly skilled champagne attack. Matthew turned into Francis' arms, accepting his valiant attempt to shield him over the waist-high barrier. "Well," said Francis, laughing, his warm lips against Matthew's ear. "I suppose that makes it official. Welcome home, Mathieu darling."

Matthew felt his chest swell at the words. The last six months had been bright and colourful, beautiful and marvellous, more wonderful than Matthew could have ever imagined. Every dream he had never dared to dream had burst into reality. Matthew had once thought his life was dull and boring: the same old grind, day in, day out. But Francis had changed all that. He had brought the colour into Matthew's life. This _was_ home now, and it was incredible how a place so cold could feel so warm.

Matthew smiled into Francis' blue eyes, bright and warm and dancing, and felt that familiar delicious tingle in the base of his spine. "Why, _merci_, _Francois_. Everything's perfect…" Matthew winked and squeezed Francis' hand. "…darling_._"

_The End._


End file.
